


move your feet and feel it in the space between

by WillowWispFlame



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Stranger, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Imposter, Loss of Identity, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mistaken Identity, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Skinning, identity theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowWispFlame/pseuds/WillowWispFlame
Summary: When Jonathan Sims returned from his six week absence from the Archives, the archival assistants were quietly relieved. The Archivist was never absent from the Archives for this long, and so maybe statement givers would return to their eloquence. However: his voice was right, his face was right, but his eyes were glassy. This was not the Archivist. This was a dress rehearsal.Title from Lose It by Oh Wonder.
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Danny Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 327
Kudos: 384





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please mind the tags for this! There is skinning and gore and blood and body horror and all sorts of awful things in this chapter. I've had so many ideas for fics for this fandom, and I love angst.
> 
> Updates will be up as I write them, but I have at least the first half of this fic planned out. Not everything will be dreary, I promise. I'm trying for weekly updates.

Nikola squealed in delight as she twisted and twirled the skin of the Archivist off of his body. His scarred skin was so soft and supple after six weeks of care, and slid off easily once the seams were cut. The tailors knew their craft as masterfully as ever. They watched, smooth mannequin faces emotionless, as she spun around with her prize. 

The Archivist’s mouth hung open in a silent scream. They had taken his vocal chords a few weeks into his stay here, sick of his insistent questions whenever they had to loosen his gag to let him eat or drink. Afterwards, he had become delightfully docile, not even squirming when they lathered Nikola’s chosen lotion into his skin. 

Nikola gripped the Archivist’s skin in her plastic palms carefully, running fingers over the pock-marked scars. She glanced at the spent Archivist, tilting her head back and forth as he looked at his flayed flesh in pain and shock. There was barely any blood loss, the power of the Stranger in action! She had promised to use every piece of him, originally planning on letting the “Anglerfish” at him, but he was no good for the choir without his voice. They would have to use his body elsewhere. Ah hah, there’s an idea.

“Sarah,” she called to the fellow Stranger who was eyeing the Archivist’s body with twitching fingers. “Grab one of the dancer skins, the pretty one please!”

The Archivist turned his eyes towards Nikola, slowly reaching out a hand to try and grab at his skin. His marbled flesh twitched uncomfortably in the air. Interestingly, the sinews and tendons were pulled into patterns that could be mistaken for abstract eyes from certain angles.

She tutted teasingly, causing him to shrink back. “Not to worry, Archivist, you’ll have a new face soon. You will be one of my background dancers for the Unknowing, isn’t that nice of me!”

Sarah returned with the skin. It was a poor old thing, played with a few too many times, but it was still as handsome as it had been when Nikola had first peeled it off of its first host. Instead of the clean pieces they had cut Jonathan Sims into so that Nikola could slide him on and wear him like a sown bear, this skin was one long strip that spiraled like a ribbon. 

With a flick of a gesture from Nikola, one of the mannequins came forward to take the skin from Sarah and begin the process of fitting it to the Archivist. The rest of the tailors followed Nikola to her dressing room. Jonathan had to be fit to cover her plastic form cleanly, so that she could be Sims and wear the power of the Archivist like a smock. 

The skin was initially slightly too small for the tailors to stretch over her plastic limbs, but a few uncomfortable swaps with smaller pairs of arms and legs as well as a new front piece for her torso allowed it to slide on and off as easily as it had slipped from the body of the Archivist. The skin puckered slightly at the seams, it reminded her of where the sleeve of a shirt met the shoulder. 

“Finishing touches!” she called, and one of the mannequins entered her dressing room with a platter covered with a silver dome. It knelt and lifted the dome off with a flourish. On the center of the platter sat a pair of glass eyes and a pinkish ring of muscle. She carefully picked up the muscle and sat on the stool in front of a lavish vanity. 

Nikola peeled the skin around her neck up and reached in, shifting her preferred larynx and moving it out of the way for the one on the platter. She smoothed the skin down over it, feeling the slight bump of it press against her fingers. One of the mannequins carefully popped the mismatched glass eyes out front under her new eyelids and slipped the brand new glass ones into place. Another carefully dressed the Ringmaster in an outfit selected to match the Archivist’s style exactly. A third combed her new hair, careful not to pull any of the tangled strands out. As it finished, sightlessly nodding at its own work, it turned the swiveling stool so that Nikola could examine herself.

Although that statement was not quite right, now. Jonathan Sims stared at himself in the mirror with glassy eyes, running a hand over his cheek and pinching it slightly. He smirked, tousling his finely combed hair with the same hand, marveling at the feeling. 

“My name is Jonathan Sims, the Ringmaster of the Circus of the Other,” he said, mimicking the smooth tones of the Archivist. “Let the performance begin.” 

<O>

The moment Jon entered the Archives, Martin lit up. The tape recorder on his desk clicked on. 

“Jon,” he called, shoving what he was working on aside and rushing over to meet him. “You’re back! Where have you been? It has been over a month since we’ve seen you.”

“Oh, I realized that I was much too stressed over the entire murder investigation thing, so I took a trip to get away from the Archives and investigate the Circus of the other myself. I’m afraid that time got away from me, all on my own out there.”

“O-oh. Did you decide against working with Daisy to hunt the Strangers then?”

“Daisy, yes, well she’s a bit too scary for me. Has that wild animal feeling about her, like she’ll tear out your throat. H-how have you all been?”

“Oh, well, we-we’ve been fine. I mean. Well. Not great. Tim’s still. Not doing well. He shows up sometimes and then leaves. I think he has been organizing the boxes in the stacks? Melanie seems okay, but I get the feeling she’s - I don’t know, planning something?”

Jon nodded and moved further into the Archives and onto the couch that Tim had dragged out of storage before Prentiss happened. He stretched out comfortably, leaving enough room for Martin to sit down next to him. 

“Basira’s the only one who seems like she is dealing with this well. She has just been,” he waved a hand. “Sitting around reading, doing her own research. She seems weirdly calm about the whole thing,” Martin continued. “And, uh, Daisy hasn't been around much at all, which honestly I’m pretty okay with.”

“Right, w-well. At least no one got hurt while I was gone.”

Martin’s eye caught sight of Jon’s left hand as he smoothed down a crease in his trousers. He had stared at Jon’s hands a lot over the time they worked together, something was different about them now. The skin around his nails was smooth, no sign of the constant peeling from dehydration that he had always worried about. 

Jon suddenly wiggled his fingers at Martin’s face. “I see you noticed my hands,” he said.

Martin’s face flushed a deep red. “Y-yes, well, uh-”

“I, uh, started a new skincare routine. Here, feel my hand, it is so soft now.”

Martin’s mind blue screened. Jon was offering to let him hold his hand. Hold his hand. He blushed even harder than before, impossibly. Martin gathered his confidence and reached out to feel Jon’s hand. He paused to blink, hard. Wow, his skin was really soft. 

Jon then started talking about his skincare routine. In depth. It was scarily detailed, including how he cared for each scar individually as well as how he made sure to avoid ingrown hairs. Apparently it involved a lot of exfoliating. 

They sat there for an entire hour, Jon seemed to have infinite knowledge of how best to take care of skin. 

Jon only seemed to snap out of it when the door slammed behind Melanie, who stalked off with barely a glance at them. 

“R-right, well, I better get to work. I have been gone for over a month. See you later Martin.” 

“O-oh, yeah, I should get back to that as well.”

Jon stood up and gave Martin a smile and wave before disappearing into his office. 

Martin grinned back at him, but his expression slowly turned as Jon went out of the room. It was possible that he had simply endeavored to take better care of his skin during his break from the Institute. But if Martin knew anything about Jon, he knew that he always struggled to routinely take care of himself outside of basic hygiene. Dedicating so much time to take care of his skin of all things was extremely out of character. 

He would have to keep an eye on him. In the meantime, he texted the Archive Assistants + Daisy group chat to let everyone know that Jon was back. The only response was Tim, who responded with an angry face emoji. He sighed and went back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As "Jonathan Sims" settles into the Archives, suspicions are raised.

Jonathan was delighted to explore Beholding's Archives. Though this mask had residual memories of it's time here, _worms worms so many worms they squirmed through and sang so sweetly_ and _paranoia someone is a killer someone is a stranger is not who they say they are_ and _watching someone something is watching always watching_ , they were secondhand at best. Fittingly enough, Beholding's stronghold was best experienced through sight, not memories. 

He paced through the stacks, occasionally pausing to lift the lid of a box and peek inside at the contents. The shelves were almost a maze, papers bulging from the confines of cardboard crates or sticking out from the drawers of filing cabinets. His skin remembered getting pinched by the metal drawers and sliced by thick papers many times as the Archivist tried to organize his predecessor’s nonsensical filing system. 

Jonathan gave himself a small smile at the small memories he was coaxing out of this mask. Getting comfortable and loose enough to dance in the Unknowing was the goal of this excursion, as was supplementing the intel their spy had gathered. Messing with the Archivist’s assistants was simply food for the Stranger. Such delightful fear in their mortal souls unconsciously realizing that their boss was not quite right, that he had changed in some fundamental way during his absence. 

Had they even cared once he had disappeared? Would they even care once all was revealed? His skin prickled with goosebumps, chilled at the thoughts and worries. A snack.

Evidently, they had noticed he had stopped showing up to work, but had never done anything to find him. Jonathan paused in his pacing to stop at a shelf and lick his lips. He salivated at the thought of all the regret-tinged fear he would feast on after the dress rehearsal, once he had peeled the mask away to show the plastic underneath. The grief dear Martin would feel once he realized that the hour he spent with an imposter was false and faked would be especially delicious. 

Maybe he would even introduce them to the Circus’s new dancer before he killed them. Would they enjoy the performance? Would they recognize the familiar behind the unfamiliar mask? 

His glass eyes - fake, but seeing just as well as any other pair - skimmed over the shelf, pausing on a box with its top flipped open. He picked out a document at random and read over it. The numbers at the top were skipped over, he had no interest in learning the strange organization system of this place. Content wise, the "statement" was fascinating, detailing an encounter with a pink dancing cactus that sprouted up from the writer's carpet after he had a "mind-altering substance." Jonathan was deeply invested. Was this some unfamiliar apparition of the Spiral? The experience must be true, if Beholding had deigned to keep the information. He understood why it hoarded now. If the rest of these shelves contained information on hidden sources of the Circus's rivals, then he wanted to know. 

The next document in the box was about faces and surroundings melting like wax. The writer complained that his friends had dismissed the experience, and had claimed it was a bad trip, whatever that meant, so he had come to the Archives. Another one from the Spiral then.

He checked some papers from the next box over. A ghost was haunting the writer’s attic, and a post-it note stuck to the document had “RACOON” written on it, but raccoons do not live on this continent. In the next, the author had been left mysterious messages to herself that she had not remembered writing. Another was about objects that kept being knocked over around the house, the note at the bottom claimed that it was just the neighbor’s cat getting in, but Jonathan knew that cats could not open a door. 

“Jon?” He heard from right next to him.

He jumped, tossing the papers into the air and falling backwards. A hand gripped his arm, and he looked up at its owner. She had an oval-shaped face framed by a blue head scarf, and she was frowning down at him.

“You scared me,” he scolded, standing up and brushing off his slacks.

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I didn’t realize you were back yet. Did you make any progress in finding that gorilla skin you mentioned last month?”

Jonathan froze, then spoke slowly, “No, Nikola changed her mind about using the gorilla. She found an alternative.”

“Did she say what the alternative was?”

“Not really, no. The next oldest skin, maybe?” Jonathan tried to think of the best way to throw this child of Beholding off of his scent. “A private collection or museum might have it. It isn’t like there is some database of the oldest taxidermy skins in the world. Gertrude couldn’t have found them all.”

Basira grimaced and glanced at the box Jonathan still had a hand on. She knew that it was full of disproven statements, Jon himself had gone through them and recorded them on his laptop. But now he was rereading them like he had seen them for the first time. And then there was the gorilla skin. It didn’t sit right with her that Orsinov had dismissed it too easily after going out of her way to threaten Jon. It couldn’t be as easy as going for the second oldest skin, the gorilla was _ancient_. 

Basira hummed and glanced at the cover of the book she had been reading. _Thaumaturgia_ . “I’ll see what I can do about figuring out what the _next_ oldest skin is, then,” she finally said. 

Jonathan nodded quickly and turned back to the box. 

Basira stared at him for a moment longer and then continued on her way back to the main room. Before she left the row, she spared a glance back at him. He was grinning, wider than she had ever seen him do before, at the false statements. As if they had spoiled the truth of the world for him.

Very strange.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Jonathan Sims" tries reading a statement.

“Hey Jon,” the woman said, who Jonathan had picked up was named Melanie. “Since you’re back, aren’t you going to start recording statements again?”

“Of course,” he responded smoothly. He tapped the box next to the Archivist’s desk with his foot. “I have a box full here to work through.”

Melanie frowned down at the box. “Alright,” she said. “I’m not sure why you are wasting your time with those, but I found one that won’t record on the computers the day before you came back.” She slapped down a small stack of papers on his desk, and he couldn’t help but notice something off about her. Something below the flimsy mask of Melanie King. It was almost familiar, memories of a distant past springing to the plastic mannequin’s mind. A previous attempt at the Unknowing, foiled by foolish agents of the Song that Decimates All, the Slaughter. 

Jonathan barely glanced at the statement. He had stolen the Archivist’s voice, so he wasn’t concerned about the Eye’s silly tape recorders. Everything in this stupid temple was drenched in the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze, so someone touched so deeply by another power that it dug deep below their skin was out of the ordinary. 

“What’s it about?”

Melanie leaned on his desk, folding her arms. “A monster pig, apparently it ate a clown.”

“A clown you say,” Jonathan said, wincing at the way his voice pitch went higher. Was this meant to be a threat? Had this woman, this agent of the Slaughter, already figured him out? No, of course not. The Eye was investigating his circus, they would be investigating any mention of the Stranger. “Sounds promising, I will give it a look.”

It was a clear dismissal, but Melanie remained, affixing him with that Beholding-typical stare. 

“Was there something else you needed?” He said slowly.

“Right, well, I thought I should let you know. I’ve been trying to kill Elias.”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Elias? Isn’t he...,” Jonathan trailed off uncertainly. 

Melanie scoffed and looked away. “I know! I know he said that if he dies, we do too. But he’s such a bastard! Trapping us all here like this, taunting us that we can’t quit. He makes me so angry!” 

Jonathan’s eyes widened at her steady increase in volume. 

“I bet he lied anyways, no way we’ll all die once he does. That’s bullshit! If anything, we’ll all be free once he’s gone. He’s a lying monster. A killer.”

This was good. This drive and passion to kill for vengeance. Jonathan could use this. “I think you should go for it,” he said. Even if what she said was true and killing Elias killed all of those under him, the only loss to Jonathan would be the Archivist, and he wasn’t even crucial to the Unknowing. Although he seriously doubted that the Eye would sacrifice so many worshipers, especially for a mask that could be so easily discarded as Elias.

“You’re supporting me?” Melanie asked, surprised. She expected Jon to admonish her for risking everyone’s lives. Maybe he doubted Elias as well, but it unnerved her.

“Of course,” he said. “I don’t see any harm in it. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he gestured at the statement.

“Right,” Melanie said and opened the door to his office, glancing back at him and noting the small smile present as he nodded at her. She slammed the door behind her. 

<O>

Jonathan turned his attention to the pig statement, regarding it with scrutiny that he hoped the Archivist would appreciate. He skimmed through the pages, noting that it indeed featured the word “pig” predominantly. 

He wrinkled his nose. He could sense that the papers were even more marked by Beholding than the ones he had gathered in his box. He half expected the pages to be splattered with little ink eyes. 

Well, if the Ringmaster had to play the part of the Archivist for just once day, then it shouldn’t be too difficult. He tapped the record button on the tape recorder handily available on the desk. The button popped back up.

Growing deeply, he picked the thing up, shaking it slightly. The compartment on the back popped open with a snap, scattering batteries which landed on the desk and quickly rolled off. Jonathan swore and flicked them away. Stupid thing had run out of juice. Jonathan looked through the desk drawers for spares, grunting in annoyance when all he could find was a drawer of what looked like stationary and another with a jar of powder that screamed that which squirms and wiggles and moulds perfectly good mannequins. His skin itched at the reminder, and the Ringmaster could not help but shake in empathy as he remembered the strange fungus which had overtaken the delicately painted wood of his first form.

Finally, he found a few batteries tucked away in the back of a drawer and slid them into place in the tape recorder. He had found an unmarked tape as well, which he dutifully marked “PIG STATEMENT” and clicked into place. He tapped the red button on the device, which started spinning nicely.

“Right then, how do we start this? Story, ahem, statement of one Dylan Anderson, apparently the owner of a clown killing pig. Let’s begin.

“ _ Pigs are tricky. They are very intelligent animals. But I’ve found I can never completely bring myself to trust them... _

“Uck, disgusting creatures. Why does this farmer go on and on about pigs so much. Just get on with it!

“... _ There it was, sat in the corner, just encompassing the corner, its bulk filling the place out as the other, smaller pigs, tried to find somewhere to be that wasn’t next to it. It just sat there, and stared at me… _

“Finally we get to the actual pig.

“... _ I’d looked after Toby since he was born. I’d helped birth him. He was my friend _ ...

“I sincerely doubt that you can be friends with such Fleshy creatures. Humans are strange even to me, bonding with animals they’d eat soon enough.

“ _ So, the Carley Brothers Circus mostly tours around Australia, but every couple of years they do a New Zealand tour as well… _

“Finally we hear about that circus. It doesn’t sound familiar, probably just some normal human one then. They are not all Strange. New Zealand though, sounds enough like a promising place.

“ _ Oh, and if you’re hungry, I’ve got some bacon in the freezer I’m going to cook up…What? _

“Flesh. I do not like thinking about it very much, a bit too mushy for my tastes. It seems like that old Gertrude took care of this pig beast,” Jonathan yawned, stretching out his plastic joints. They had somehow grown stuck as he had sat then, hunched over the statement. Talking for so long, performing for no one but the Eye and perhaps Elias eventually, was exhausting. More so than usual. Maybe it was the skin, or perhaps reading this thing counted as feeding the Eye.

Regardless, Jonathan tapped the stop button on the tape recorder and extracted the tape. Scooping up the top stack of papers out of the box, he made his way out of his office to where all of the Assistants had their desks set up. Jonathan set the tape on Martin’s empty desk, hoping that the man would get the idea and file it so that he wouldn’t have to guess where it went. Then he flopped onto the dingey couch and pulled the blanket draped on the back over his cold skin. Little bumps that reminded Jonathan of bird skin under all the feathers had popped up. He didn’t have much body heat to make the blanket effective, but it served its purpose. 

<O>

Melanie watched with narrowed eyes as Elias stalked down the stairs at the end of the hall. He looked agitated. Hopefully he would forget and slip on the bad step. She slipped back into the Archives well ahead of him, downing the rest of her coffee with one big gulp. 

Martin was sitting at his desk, brow furrowed as he switched the plug of his headphones between two tape recorders. He glanced at Jon, who was splayed over the couch with a stack of statements on his chest and a blanket draped over his shoulders. Was he dozing? Basira had rolled away from her desk and was glancing at Jon over her book.

"Incoming Elias," Melanie said and slammed the door behind her. "And he doesn't look happy."

The three looked up at the loud noise. After a moment to stare at the door with apprehension, Jon tossed the papers to the ground, curled up into a ball and threw the blanket over himself.

It was hardly an overreaction to Elias coming to check on them, especially after Jon had disappeared for over a month, but it was a strange thing to do regardless. She expected him to at least run into his office and lock the door behind him if he didn’t want to see his boss, not go into the fetal position like a scared turtle. He had encouraged her to kill Elias earlier, was he afraid of his boss’s wrath?

Martin and Basira stared at his curled up form with as much confusion as Melanie was feeling.

She tilted her paper coffee cup contemplatively, peeking through the hole to check and see if any of the brown liquid was left. As Elias opened the door and stepped in, she whipped around and threw it at his head. It hit his shoulder with a dull hollow sound and fell to the ground with a light thump. He looked at her, unimpressed, and crushed the cup underfoot before kicking it aside. 

“What do you want, Elias?” Basira asked, setting down her book.

“I am Looking for my Archivist,” he seethed out. “Where is he?” 

Their eyes immediately flickered unconsciously to the bundle on the couch. Elias picked up on it immediately, and stalked over to rip the blanket off of Jon. He tugged at the end of it, but Jon must have grabbed it because he only succeeded at pulling it taut. 

“Jon, let go of the blanket,” Elias said as he jerked the blanket at an awkward angle. 

The blanket made a muffled noise that vaguely sounded like, “No.”

Elias then ripped the blanket and Jonathan off of the couch, sending him rolling onto the floor.

“Ouch,” Jonathan said dully, sitting up. “You didn’t have to be so harsh, now my skin is going to get awful bruises.”

Elias scowled and lifted Jonathan up by the shoulder, but froze as he met the man’s eyes.

“You are not the Archivist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, but hey it's fun.
> 
> If you want to try out a Mechanisms/TMA AU, I wrote the first oneshot of a series for my take on one. Check out [The Mechanisms Versus Grifter's Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24560551)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation is had.

“You are not the Archivist,” Elias said. He sounded more shocked than they had ever heard before.

“What are you talking about,” Jonathan challenged, brushing Elias’s hand off of his shoulder. “I am Jonathan Sims.”

Elias took a step back. “No,” he said. “You are wearing the face of Jonathan Sims.” 

The Assistants’ eyes widened in shock. Both Melanie and Basira had sensed something off about Jon, but they had blamed it internally on the man becoming more monstrous during the month he had been gone. They hadn’t guessed that Jon had outright been replaced.

The two newcomers to the Archives hadn’t heard much about what happened to Sasha, the men who had known her best were mostly unwilling to speak about it, but they knew the basics. That she had died over a year ago and was switched with a monster. That it had tried to kill Jon after he destroyed the table containing it, failed, and then was supposedly killed by Leitner. Melanie was supposedly the only one to immediately differentiate the two. Basira had never met the original. NotSasha was gone.

They were supposed to be done with imposters. 

Martin set his mouth at a hard line. 

Jonathan quirked up an eyebrow. “So you think I’ve been replaced with some sort of Stranger then, like Sasha was. I guarantee that if you compare my voice with any tape, it will be the same. I’m sure there’s dozens that will do it.”

Martin spoke up. He had been cross checking the statement Jonathan had left on his desk with an older one. “Their voices are the same, but their mannerisms are completely different. Jon never interrupted a statement with commentary, he always saved that for the end. And you, whoever you are, your introduction to the statement was completely off!”

“Martin,” Jonathan said with a faux offense. 

“No,” Elias said sternly. He was stiff, never taking his eyes off of Jonathan. “You are not him, those are not his Eyes.”

Jonathan laughed. It was a sharp sound which stuttered from Jon’s deeper tones to peak into something light and punctuated like a dog toy being squeezed. It was unnerving, sending a shiver up each of their spines.

The Archival Assistants’ mouths fell open at the unnatural sounds. 

Jonathan stepped forward towards Elias. “Of course the Eyes would give me away to the likes of you,” he said, words laced with poison. “Even a costume as wonderfully crafted as this one has flaws. But I know better than to try to claim the eyes of a Beholder. Glass was enough to fool them,” he sneered towards the Assistants.

They growled in return.

“I knew there was something wrong when you were reading those fake statements!”

“I might not like Jon, but I at least know he wouldn’t curl up into a ball to avoid Elias!” _And he would care more about people’s wellbeing_ , Melanie added silently. _The real Jon would have never encouraged me_.

“The minute you mentioned taking care of yourself, I knew something was up!”

Jonathan sent Martin a quick, bewildered glance and then scoffed. “Sure, play your little cards of suspicion. They’re worthless paranoia. Beholding inundates this place. You all weren’t about to actually _do_ anything about it. You just wanted to watch.” He grinned. “But you, Elias, can I call you Elias? You were supposed to be out of the office today. You had to be in a very important meeting with Peter Lukas. I bet he wasn’t happy about you leaving. Did something about my return catch your eye? How excited you must have been to check up on your pet project after leaving him for so long in my care.” 

“What did you do to Jon?” Martin asked, coming closer. He had a deadly serious air about him.

“Didn’t you hear me?” The monster said mockingly with Jon’s voice. “I _am_ Jonathan Sims now. I have his face,” he said in that high-pitched squeaky-toy tone. “And I have his voice,” he said, dropping back to low. “And even some of his memories! Isn’t that handy?”

“Stop it! Stop pretending to be him,” Melanie yelled. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m a monster, it is sort of what I do,” he said playfully. 

“Give him back,” Basira seethed out between clenched teeth. 

“Tell me where my Archivist is,” Elias demanded.

The four opposing Jonathan had started creeping forward, boxing him in. And that just wouldn’t do. 

Jonathan smirked. “You know, it is funny. You four are acting like you actually care about what happens to your precious Archivist. But your actions do not match your words, really very poor acting if you ask me. How long has he been in my care?” Jonathan touched his chin in a mock charade of thinking. “Oh, it must have been weeks, over a month and a half by now.” 

They felt dread pooling in their stomachs at the thought of how long Jon had been in this creature’s clutches. Unease crept up their spines as they witnessed this Stranger who had taken the form of the man they thought they knew.

“We guarded him day and night, expecting a rescue mission, but I see now that was a waste of time. No one ever came.

“You never spared Jonathan Sims more than a thought, did you? No,” Jonathan tilted his head. “The Archivist had already been absent for a few days or weeks at a time before. A month or so at most, after that little run in with the 'NotThem.' We’ve been keeping our own eye on him for some time, you know.” He giggled. It was an awful, high-pitched sound, contrasting with the face of the man they had once known. “An extended ‘vacation’ was the logical next step, or so you told yourselves. Hm, or maybe you were secretly grateful that he was avoiding you,” he smiled with teeth that were too white to be natural. “He was slowly Becoming a beast of the Eye when we took him in. Were you afraid of him Becoming someone, something unrecognizable? A Stranger, you might say.”

“Shut up,” Basira snapped. She liked Jon, she really did. He was funny, when he wanted to be. They got along. Basira had not known what to think after she found out that he was becoming one of the monsters which Daisy hunted, but she did not want to see him harmed.

Melanie seethed beside her. Jon was a pompous ass to her when she made her statements, but he had listened. He had let her access the Institute’s library despite their awful first impressions of each other, and he had trusted her to be his eyes in the Institute while he was on the run from the police. They had their differences, but she had been willing to work under him when she agreed to be hired by Elias, even though she now regretted that choice. He hadn’t coddled her like Martin had once she had been hired, choosing to fill her in on the supernatural aspects of the Archives hidden from the public. 

Jon might have been becoming a monster, but he was their monster boss. And they had never cared that he had disappeared. Now he was dead or worse, taken and replaced by something far more monstrous than he had ever been. Regret began to lap at their feet.

The thing wearing Jon’s face turned its attention to Elias. 

“Elias, really, can I call you Elias? You never answered my question. You knew that the Archivist had gone missing, certainly, but you chose to sit and wait to see what happened next. Are you happy with the result? Or did you not see this outcome when you sent him Sarah’s way?” It barked that horrible laugh once more, reaching out and patting Elias on the head. 

The head of the Magnus Institute looked like he was ready to explode. 

“Nikola Orsinov.”

He reached out as if to tear the stolen voice box out of the Stranger, but Jonathan danced out of the way between him and Martin. He tucked and rolled, sounding like a strike of bowling pins being knocked down.

Martin, to his credit, took a swipe as well, but the Ringmaster was far more quick than he expected. He skipped away, swiftly making it across the room and taking hold of the brass knob of the Archive’s sickly yellow door. 

“This was a fun dress rehearsal, but now that the game is up I really must be returning. There’s a dance to prepare for, the end of the world to herald, all those good things.” Jonathan waved, pulling the skin of his cheeks down in what would be a childish expression if they couldn’t see the lacquered wood peeking out underneath his glass eyes. He turned the knob, opening the door that definitely led to a hallway. Just not quite the one he was expecting. 

Martin’s eyes widened, his mouth opening with a silent warning.

The creature took no notice of his peril, smiling wildly at the despair filling the basement. He turned and strode through the door. In the split second after “Jonathan” realized where the door led and before it slammed shut, they saw him stiffen and lurch backwards. They heard no accompanying thump.

The sudden quiet of the room was swiftly interrupted by an echoing laugh which filled the room as it faded in. 

On the couch, sitting where the Ringmaster had just sat, was a tall, thin, blond man. His kaleidoscope eyes swirled with delight as its hand dug into a comically oversized popcorn bowl. Michael finished laughing, breathless, still giggling as it caught its breath. He pulled his hand out of the bowl and plopped a couple of gummy worms into his mouth, not bothering to chew before swallowing. 

“I must say,” the Distortion said. “That was quite the show!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the rescue mission arc.

To say that Martin was alarmed would be an understatement. Michael, the creature that had trapped him and Tim in its hallways for what felt like two weeks, was casually sitting on the Archives’ couch. It snacked on suspiciously wriggly gummy worms like it hadn’t just consumed the monster who had stolen Jon’s face. 

Glancing nervously at Elias, he noted that the murderer had somehow schooled his expression to one of mild annoyance. 

“Michael,” Elias said, voice dripping with thinly veiled disgust. 

The Distortion flexed the many-jointed fingers of one of his hands in the direction of Elias in greeting, its other hand draping over its mouth to stifle its giggles. The cartoonish popcorn bowl tipped over on its side, spilling multi-colored gummy worms interspersed with confetti. 

Martin stepped slowly away from the couch to join Melanie and Basira by their desks. He glanced over at the yellow door on the way. It was still there, but slightly overlapped the actual entrance to the Archives. It effectively discouraged any of them from leaving any time soon. He would rather not make a return trip to the nightmare hallways, thank you very much.

“What do you want now, Michael? Here to argue for your pension again? Or are you here to just make a nuisance of yourself?”

“Elias,” Michael said, voice echoing painfully. He copied Elias’s tone exactly. “While yes, my pension is ever so important to me, I do have other reasons for visiting. That does give me an idea though! You give me my pension, I will help you retrieve your stray Archivist.”

“Fine,” Elias spit out. He glared at the Assistants. “Do me a favor and entertain your alumnus while I draft the paperwork. Do try not to get eaten.” With that, Elias braved the door, glaring at the yellow until it slid off the true one enough to let him through. Now they were alone with this.

“Wh-why are you offering to h-help?” Martin stammered. He ignored the fact that Michael had apparently worked at the Institute long enough to earn a pension, throwing it into the mental box labelled ‘Things to stress over while trying to sleep.’ Martin didn’t like the idea of working with Michael on anything, but if it could help save Jon, then he would have to suck it up.

Michael’s spiral eyes rolled in their sockets. The effect was nauseating, Martin heard Melanie gag behind him. He thanked his past self for taking lunch hours earlier.

“Because I don’t want the Circus to win,” he said simply. “I couldn’t get close enough to the Archivist with its minions crawling all over him day and night. By the time they left him unattended, it was already too late. The Circus had already claimed the Archivist’s self.”

“You couldn’t get close enough, close enough to do what?” Basira asked, barely a tremor in her voice. “And what do you mean by the Circus claiming Jon? They had already kidnapped him at that point.”

“I wanted to free the Archivist, of course,” Michael said, examining the ends of its extremely pointy fingers. “He is incredibly entertaining to mess with, far more entertaining than those drama queen Strangers. And there is the whole revenge thing for what the Archivist did to Michael.”

“What did Jon do to you?” Melanie asked.

“Nothing!” Michael responded with glee. “Maybe he asked a few too many questions, but that is excusable, it is in the Archivist’s nature to ask.”

“Then why do you want revenge on him?” Martin asked, exasperated. 

“I don’t want revenge on him,” Michael said thoughtfully. It rested its head on an oversized palm, lengthy fingers curling around his head. “I want revenge on her, Gertrude, for feeding Michael to me. For betraying Michael’s trust. For ruining our transcendence by making him into me. I hate her, he trusted her, I want revenge. I want no Archival Assistant to be sacrificed by the Archivist ever again.”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. For someone who professed that he wanted to protect them, Michael had terrorized the Archives quite a bit. Wait a second. “You, when you trapped me and Tim in your hallways, you were making sure that Jon confronted NotSasha alone. You were trying to protect us?”

Michael grinned. It was extremely pointy. “The Archivist had already dismissed you both to keep the NotThem from harming you, I thought I’d lend a hand. My corridors are much more pleasant than the fate the NotThem had planned for you. It tended to eat lives and wear them to squeeze unease from its victims’ friends and family.”

“Is that what happened to Jon, then?” Melanie asked suddenly. “Did that-that thing with his face eat him like the thing that ate Sasha?”

“Not quite,” Michael shook his head in a disturbingly human way. “The creature that calls herself Nikola Orsinov likes to wear the skins of her victims, she did the same to her father from what I understand.” It tilted its head, considering. “She tends to steal voices as well.”

“Well that explains why the tapes didn’t pick up any difference in voice,” Martin muttered. “W-wait, does that mean that Jon was  _ skinned  _ and had his _ throat  _ torn out?” Martin said in horror. “Is he-is he even still alive?”

“The Archivist lives. You would know if he died,” Michael said flippantly. “The Stranger has its ways of keeping its victims alive despite removing their so-called masks. How would the Flayed Choir sing with its members bleeding out?”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Melanie said quietly.

“He can’t sing without h-his voice,” Basira pointed out.

Michael’s smile widened. “Very good! There are several other options for the more  _ fleshy _ members of the Circus that don’t involve singing. The Acrobats, the Dancers and the Sideshow acts all would welcome something not entirely plastic or wood. The Archivist is not a gymnast and is not physically Strange enough for the Freak-show. They most likely put him in with the Dancers, and gave him a skin that was already experienced in Dancing.”

The mental image of Jon wearing the skin of a Stranger was only marginally better than that of him being part of what Martin imagined the Flayed Choir was. Horrifying either way, but saving someone without a skin would be much more difficult than saving someone with one. 

“You seem to already know a lot about the Circus,” Basira said slowly. She sounded suspicious, rightfully so. 

“The Stranger has its masks, hidden carefully from the Eye of the Watcher, but the Spiral lives in fallacy. The Circus cannot hide from the Spiral. It cannot conceal the Archivist from me when Michael is already familiar with the taste of his fearful delusions. I have marked him.”

“Ignoring how ominous that sounds, it seems you have the whole rescuing Jon thing down,” Basira said. “So then why-”

“Why stick around to explain this when I could go fetch the Archivist myself?” Michael interrupted with a sharp smile. “Simply put, while I can surely find where they are keeping the Archivist and my doors allow me to transport myself wherever I want, I am too weak to take on the entire Circus myself. I require help.”

“What kind of help?” Melanie asked.

“Well first of all, the Archivist needs what an old acquaintance of mine called an ‘Anchor,’ someone or something he cares about enough to pull him from the embrace of the Stranger. A friend or family member should do, a coworker he has known for some time failing that.”

Melanie and Basira both immediately looked at Martin. His face warmed, and he started stammering small, incredulous denials.

“The only other people Jon has known longer than you are Georgie, Tim, and Elias. Georgie wants nothing to do with the Archives,” Melanie said shortly. “Tim is still MIA and hates Jon, and Elias can choke.”

“Second would be a distraction, someone to draw the attention of the Circus off of myself and the Anchor for long enough to rescue the Archivist. That Hunter that hangs around here would do nicely, if you can keep her from trying to kill me,” Michael’s nose twisted. Literally, it spun on his face. 

“I can ask Daisy to help,” Basira offered. “She really likes killing mannequins and the other Circus monsters.”

“So Martin snaps Jon out of whatever spell the Stranger has him under while Daisy distracts the Circus, and Michael is the getaway driver?” Melanie summarized. “This sounds like either the best or the worst Buddy Cop movie of all time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the later than I hoped for chapter. This was like pulling teeth, I knew where I was starting and where I wanted to go, but had no plan on for how to get there. 
> 
> I've never seen Michael, Daisy and Martin work together before, so this should be interesting.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Daisy attend a dancing lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when I mentioned that the title of this fic was from Lose It by Oh Wonder? Do me a favor and watch the [music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgwcPiCjQ-0).

Martin swallowed nervously at the sight of that yellow door. He hated it, he really did. The sickly yellow paint was much too cheery to be the entrance into the twisting labyrinth of hell. The doorknob, which seemed to shift form every time he looked away from it, was worn and shiny with use. He didn’t want to go in, not at all. 

How could he trust Michael to tell the truth about what happened to Jon? Hadn’t it admitted to being a creature of fallacy, of lies? For all they knew, Jon was already dead and Michael just wanted to mess with them for a while before eating them. Playing with its food. 

No, he couldn’t let doubt cloud his mind. Michael seemed to care too much about getting his “pension” from Elias to not bring Jon back. It had invited Daisy, who had taken one look at it and smiled with too many pointy teeth. If it wanted to eat him, it could have tricked him into its corridors without a companion nor the promise of return. 

This plan was idiotic, depending on a creature of lies to tell the truth, but it was the best chance they had to get Jon back. Michael, for all of its monstrosity, was a powerful ally. It could make its doorways anywhere in the world, and could get through the wards the Stranger had set up to hide the Circus.

Martin jumped when he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. He turned and there was Daisy. Basira had already called her back to the Institute and briefed her on the situation. 

“Take this,” she said and handed him what looked like a newly purchased wooden baseball bat. 

“Uh, sure.” He took it awkwardly, holding it nervously away from his body. 

“Use it to bash in mannequin skulls if they get too close,” she said, looking over him critically. “That should be good enough to daze them and get away. You have held a baseball bat before, right?”

“Y-yeah, it has just. It has been awhile,” Martin said and gripped the bat with both of his hands, tucking it closer to his chest. The wood was smooth and solid, good for hitting baseballs and apparently mannequin heads. 

“Use your whole body when you swing, torso and all. You look like you have good upper body strength, for a nerd.”

“Th-thanks?”

Daisy clapped him on the shoulder, and barked a laugh when it almost sent him sprawling. He was very glad that Daisy did not hang around the Archives very often, her very presence made Martin feel like a prey animal cowering from the lion about to break its neck.

Michael buzzed from his place on the couch. It had turned one of its long fingers stiff and skinny and had skewered several pieces of something along the length like a kebab. One of those somethings looked like a single strand of spaghetti, wound around the appendage several times. Michael slurped it down noisily. 

Basira and Melanie were going over old statements, some marked hastily as Stranger in Jon’s messy handwriting, others with the old Circus tag in Tim’s blocky letters. Jon had brought a small stack of statements and tapes back to the Archives after his month long absence after being framed by Elias. Martin wondered if that was how Jon had managed to stay away from the Archives longer than Tim, by bringing a piece of it with him. The Circus didn’t have that same benefit. 

“There is plenty here about the monsters who replace people,” Melanie said, waving around a statement. “But there is nothing about what happens to their victims, nothing.”

“We never did find James’ body,” Basira said quietly, but not quite softly enough to keep Martin from hearing. He appreciated the effort nonetheless. “It had been six months since NotSasha killed her, but we never found anything more than table fragments in Artifact Storage, trash and some chalk arrows in the tunnels. Whatever these things do, they don’t usually leave traces behind willy nilly.”

“They’ve been collecting pieces for their ritual for decades,” Michael spoke up, his voice sounding like it echoed through a cave. “What is the phrase again? Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.” He ate another piece of food off of its finger. It was suspiciously shaped like a dinosaur nugget, and crunched like a potato chip. “The Circus is very efficient.” 

“Thanks,” Basira said. “Very helpful.”

“Not so very helpful in figuring out how to get back Jon’s face and voice from that thing you ate,” said Melanie. 

“I suspect Elias will scheme up something,” Michael said. “I doubt he wants the Archivist to be without a voice.”

Was the couch always that color of green?

“Are you two ready?” Daisy asked. She had an anxiety-inducing number of weapons strapped to her person, which was not more than five or so, but it was still a lot to Martin. 

He clutched the bat and nodded.

Michael stood up smoothly, moving like one of those wacky waving inflatable tube guys from in front of a car dealership as it did so. It walked over to its yellow door, positioned politely in the middle of a clear wall, and opened the door. 

Daisy nodded goodbye to Basira and walked over, with Martin following close behind. She gave the door a sniff and glanced at Michael, who gave her a small smile, and walked confidently right on in. 

Martin took a deep breath in and out, and said, “See you soon, hopefully with Jon,” back towards Melanie and Basira. They watched as he took a tentative step in and the door creaked ominously closed behind him. A click and Michael disappeared, leaving only the yellow door behind. Its paint was peeling. 

<O>

Martin was deposited directly into the middle of a stage, with Daisy standing beside him looking around cautiously. The stage was smoothly sanded wood, with rich navy blue curtains draping the sides. What seemed to be several light blue bed sheets were strung up along the back wall, forming a patchwork backdrop. The lights throughout the room were on, lighting up the audience brightly. Sitting, clustered haphazardly throughout the small auditorium, were a few dozen humanoid figures. Martin didn’t make the mistake of thinking they were people. They sat too still, frozen in their poses. 

He peered closer at one sitting in the front row. Was it made out of wax?

Martin jolted back as the theater’s speakers squeaked to life, buzzing for a moment before playing soft piano. He backed up quickly to rejoin Daisy, who was in a defensive position and still looking around the empty stage. She held a pistol securely in two hands, pointed down at the stage.

“Ah, th-think someone is playing a prank on us?” Martin asked nervously. He didn’t think it was Michael, the wax sculptures were a little too eerie for it. It would probably enjoy something more mind bendingly abstract, he thought. 

“The mannequin freaks are into dramatics,” Daisy said tersely, voice barely audible over the volume of the music. A voice had started singing over the speakers, singing lyrics that Martin tried his best not to listen to. “Keep your head up, and try to keep your bearings. They’ll probably jump us when the song stops building.”

“Jump us?” Martin asked, alarmed. 

Just then, trumpets blared from the speakers, and as one the bed sheets along the wall dropped to the ground. They turned on their heels to see a group of over a dozen dancers, of all body types and skin tones, step forward. No, not just dancers, they were Dancers. Horizontal scars ran across each of their widely grinning faces like stripes. They all wore the same thing: black tights with vertical white stripes, black exercise shorts, navy blue long-sleeved shirts, and black hair wraps. The dancers each held a colorful flag above their heads, which they brought down as they moved forwards. The discarded sheets were pulled off stage by invisible stage hands. 

They moved forward smoothly, sweeping the ground before them with their flags. Four broke off from the main group, tossing their flags into the air to be caught by their companions, before approaching Martin and Daisy.

“Find which one is Sims,” Daisy ordered, shoving Martin to the side and stalking towards the Dancers. 

The four ringleaders had rolled up their sleeves and, sickeningly, their skin, which unwound from their wrists like a coil and trailed down towards the ground. The flesh underneath was not red or muscled. It was beautiful, swirling colors like an impressionist painting. The Dancers did not talk as they challenged Daisy, only speaking with their bodies. 

Daisy raised her gun and shot the closest one in the head, causing it to drop and sprawl on to the ground.

Martin did not have to be told twice to look for Jon. He turned and quickly approached the still swaying Dancers in the back, keeping a comfortable distance from the radius of their circling flags. He skipped into the space behind them and the wall, keeping his distance from the more threatening Dancers fighting Daisy. 

These Dancers, the Backup Dancers, had a more comfortable feeling around them. They were still eerie in their synchronous dancing, but Martin could reason that any group of real dancers could practice enough to match them. They didn’t have the same elongating, fluid movements of the main Dancers. They seemed more human, were these the Dancer’s victims, forced to dance along to the same rhythm? Either way, when he tried to focus on their faces to find someone familiar, his eyes slid off. They all blurred together, individuals but also one big menagerie, indistinguishable from each other. 

“Jon!” Martin called, yelling over the overpowering volume of the music. None of the Backup Dancers reacted. They probably couldn’t hear him. “Jon!” He yelled, louder. “Jonathan Sims!” Still nothing. 

The Backup Dancers twirled, encircling Martin. He glanced around the circle nervously, looking each one in the face as they bobbed up and down and swayed back and forth. Nothing, no signs of recognition, only smiling looks of encouragement. Did they want him to dance with them? 

No, he was not here to join them, he was here to pull Jon out of the Stranger, or whatever Michael had said. 

He couldn’t ‘anchor’ Jon if he couldn’t pick him out of the crowd, and Jon was probably too enthralled by whatever spell he was under to realize that Martin or Daisy were there to save him. He had to do something. 

Through the moving forms and flags of the Backup Dancers, Martin spotted Daisy. She was viciously attacking the main Dancers. The first one she had shot was back up, dripping light blue paint from the hole in its head, but two of the others were shattered into pieces on the ground. Only one was left unscathed, keeping its distance from the Hunter. As he watched, Daisy charged forward with a wicked knife, catching the wounded Dancer in the chest and kicking it down. It exploded into a splattering of paint and what looked like confetti, littering the stage.

Martin tore his gaze away, returning to judging the movements of the Backup Dancers. His gaze caught on one who had slightly fallen behind their companions. Martin realized with dismay that he couldn’t even tell their vaguest features apart anymore, left with only slight variations in movement to separate the Dancers. He felt a tugging on his arms and turned to see that two of the Dancers had come up and grabbed on, pulling him from side to side and trying to get him to move. 

The other Dancers had scattered over the stage, each taking up their own space to move and dance how they wished. Some formed small groups or pairs, dancing with each other. 

Martin felt himself get twirled around, glimpsing Daisy wiping her knife off on her paint stained pants. The Dancers who had attacked her were so much paint and confetti on the group. At least he could still recognise her. Martin roughly pulled his arms away from the Dancers trying to get him to move with them, letting out a reflexive, “Sorry!”

They shrugged and spun away. The music had gone soft and slow again, the trumpets petering out. 

Martin retreated to the side of the stage to catch his breath, leaning on his knees. After a moment, Daisy joined him. 

“Any luck?”

“No,” he panted. “I can’t even tell them apart, and they started trying to get me to dance with them. Are we sure that Jon is one of them?”

“Yes,” Daisy said immediately. “I can sm-” she cut herself off. “I can sense him.”

“Right,” he said, straightening up. He had caught his breath. “I’ll try again then.” He looked over the group of Dancers once more, thoughts cycling back. If these were the human victims of the Dancers that Daisy had killed, then they logically would have less of whatever magic allowed them to dance so perfectly, especially now that they were gone. So they would have to practice to get the moves right. Jon had only been here for a little over a month, and both Nikola and Michael had implied that he had been kept for some time before the clown stole Jon’s face. Jon had only been here for a relatively short amount of time, meaning he had to be the most inexperienced Dancer! 

He wasn’t experienced in dance or the work that went into it, but he could use context to try and differentiate them. Martin looked around with new eyes, separating the Dancers that seemed to be practicing easier moves from the ones taking on the more challenging ones, noting the ones that seemed to be teaching groups of others. Instead of struggling to separate them by face, he easily identified them by skill level. His eyes lingered on one of the Dancers, he was copying the moves of one of the more experienced ones who shifted smoothly between five static poses. Something about him seemed familiar, but Martin couldn’t put a finger on it. He trusted his gut though, and charged forward. 

He dodged and weaved around the Dancers, swiftly moving limbs barely missing him. He heard Daisy following behind him stiffly, wary of the distracted Dancers who could all still turn against them. 

Finally Martin made it to the Dancer he had picked out, and he grabbed him by the shoulder. The sudden weight shook him out of his pose, and the Dancer turned his head. Martin gasped. This was not Jon’s face, this was the face of someone he’d never met, but he recognized those eyes, a warm brown that caught the light just right. His gaze was light and confused, instead of his usual sharp stare, but this was Jon, he had to be him.

Martin had found him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue mission continues.

Jonathan Sims was having a bit of an off day. It had started out so well, he’d tried on his newest skin, finally done with fitting, and found it to his liking. It wasn’t nearly as dry as it had been when the Circus had first picked up the Archivist, but the scars peppering the skin added a certain unpleasantness in how they snagged and pulled. 

He was feeling a bit peckish and heard that the Magnus Institute’s local little freak was out of the office, so he’d decided to pay the Archivist’s Assistants a visit. Of course he was interested in seeing what the Archives were looking into. Snooping was more an Eye thing, but he reasoned that Jonathan Sims rubbing off on the doll below. So instead of keeping his visit and meal brief, he had decided to draw it out and try to follow in the footsteps of their spy. 

He really should have known better, though that may have been Jonathan’s self-deprecation bleeding through. Hm. Maybe it was about time for a costume change, he’d underestimated the weight of this skin.

Still, he had been somewhat prepared for some flimsy researchers to push over, maybe a confrontation with Elias at worst, but an encounter with the Spiral was unexpected and concerning. The Spiral and the Eye made a deadly pair, twinning lies and knowledge into a paranoid nightmare. 

His time within the Distortion’s hallways were disconcerting, even to a being of masks like himself. He found himself drifting aimlessly, opening and closing doors to nowhere, following the turns that always went left. The wallpaper was vertically striped, alternating between a pale yellow and a yellowed white.

He didn’t know how long he had been walking, time was difficult here. 

The possibility of forgetting the truth behind the lie was worrying. He found himself staring into fun house mirrors that made him forget that he was wood and plastic below this mask, leaving him a frightened shell of a being. 

After a disconcerting encounter with a woman with frizzy hair that seemed to twist and curl on its own, most likely a victim or ally of the Spiral, he finally found a place to stop and rest. She had called out to Jonathan, had recognised him. Had somehow seen through the Stranger’s lies and called out the Ringmaster. She had chased him through the hallways with fledgling claws that echoed those of the current Distortion, trying to snip the skin right off of him. 

He took a break in a piece of hallway that reminded him of passageways behind a stage, it wasn’t real but the halls had twisted to fit one of the Ringmaster’s memories. The floor and walls were painted black, and thin, strangely colored vines hung from the ceiling and sprouted dark spot lights. The distant sounds of laughter and song echoed through, dampened by the walls. In some pitiful theater somewhere, the stagehands probably gossiped about a haunted hallway.

He really did hate being here, able to maneuver well enough through the halls without entirely losing his mind, but still trapped until the right door opened. 

<O>

Daisy leaned over into Blackwood’s side to get a better look at Sims’ new face. Blackwood froze like a newborn fawn separated from its mother with a lion prowling nearby. Daisy exhaled sharply at the thought, the current situation wasn’t too different, though she’d prefer him to be a fully willing eye freak before she took a bite out. She had standards after all. 

Daisy raked her gaze over Sims. Still around the same height, if a few inches taller. Maybe because he wasn’t slouching? His entire pose and posture were different, eerily reminiscent of that dance class she had been forced to take in high school. His feet were splayed in a wide dancer’s V, heels close enough to touch, knees straight and upright. His back was straight, stomach and hips tucked in, and his shoulders were down and held slightly back. His arms rested slightly forward at his sides, bent at the elbows in a slight curve. He usually held himself a lot less formally, slouching in on himself with folded arms as if to protect his belly, knees bent and feet parallel. 

A wicked series of scars, or maybe just one long one, wrapped horizontally across his face and around his head, spiraling around his neck and tucking into his collar. She bet that it continued over his entire body from that point in one long strip, but the ostentatious outfit seemed to do its best to cover every inch of skin. Even his hands were gloved in white leather. Other than that, his face was completely unrecognizable from the one she associated with the Archivist. 

His nose was slightly flatter, cheeks round and healthy, black hair swept up into an undercut much different from his usual shoulder length hair streaked with grey. Sims’ new face, separated from her biases about what he should look like, was actually quite familiar. He looked like one of those male models advertising subscription services in magazines. Given what she heard NotSasha and its obsession with stock photos, maybe that was the idea. 

That sense of hers, which she had at first attributed to smell but now associated with something more supernatural, was screaming that this was an imposter, much like every other Dancer on the stage. However, she had grown very familiar with the ‘scent’ of eye freaks like Sims. His hung around in the air of this place like mold spores, giving a citrus undercurrent to the cloying smell of makeup and hairspray. This close to Sims, it was like the sun’s corona peeking out from where the celestial body was eclipsed by the moon. Covered up, but still shining brightly behind the mask forced upon him. 

“Sims?” she prodded, ignoring the shorter Dancer frowning at them in annoyance next to him. 

Sims opened his mouth as if to respond, that dazed light in his eyes growing sharper, but then the other Dancer tugged on his arm. His gaze fell murky again as they tried to pull him away.

Blackwood’s grip held true. “S-sorry, but Jon has to come with us, h-he can’t stay here and dance,” he stammered out. 

The short Dancer shook their head and grimaced, snapping their fingers by Sims’ ear and causing him to jolt. Sims half turned towards them, eyes still lingering on Martin’s face even as he shook his hand off his shoulder. 

“D-daisy,” Blackwood called, and well. She was here to do a job.

Daisy’s nose wrinkled and her upper lip lifted, revealing her canines as she let out a low growl. She leaned towards the short Dancer, as menacing as possible. 

The Dancer’s jaw immediately dropped, and they let go of Sims in favor of scrambling backwards. Like all of the other Dancers, they were completely silent vocally, but as they backed away, the loud urgency of their movements alerted the rest of the company. 

Daisy shoved Blackwood and Sims behind her as the Dancers gathered together in a whisper of bare feet on wood. Sims seemed to try and lean towards them, but Blackwood’s grip returned to hold him back.

“Snap Sims out of it, I’ll handle the troupe,” she growled. She saw Blackwood nod sharply in the corner of her eye, pulling Sims off stage. Daisy set her attention on the Dancers. A few had run off, and something bestial within her urged to chase after the stragglers. But she had a job to do, and a couple of idiots to protect. 

<O>

Martin checked over the theater’s wing, scanning it quickly for any Dancers. They were alone, except for an inconspicuous canary yellow door hiding behind a clothes rack hung with gaudy costumes. Right, Michael was here to be the getaway driver. 

He turned back to Jon, who he held firmly by the wrist and seemed relatively content to follow behind Martin like a lost puppy. His eyes were still unfocused, and he moved with an eerie gracefulness. Martin dropped his wrist, suddenly self-conscious. 

“Jon?” Martin asked. “Jon, you need to snap out of it. You don’t have to be all creepy Dancer now.”

He was at least looking at Martin as he spoke, but that moment of mutual recognition they had on the stage seemed to have passed. He swayed slightly from side to side, and Martin was uncomfortable, reminded of one of the earlier statements Jon had recorded, the one about the Anglerfish. 

Martin glanced behind Jon and moved to maneuver him by the shoulders so that he couldn’t look behind him, where Daisy was currently trying to hold back an unfamiliar Stranger monster. One of the Dancers must have fetched it, because he had not seen anything that could twist and stretch its torso and limbs like rubber bands before. One of the acrobats, probably.

“Right, maybe I need a different approach,” Martin mused, trying to think fast. Nothing like being under a time crunch to get things done. He was quickly coming to the realization that he knew precious little about Jon. “I think you said you were staying with an old f-friend from college, Georgie? Melanie said she talked to her after we found out what happened to you, she thought you got a new flat and ghosted her. Really not cool, though if that was her first assumption then maybe it wasn’t the first time you did something like that.”

He paused, searching Jon’s face. Was it more attentive?

He continued, “You work at the Magnus Institute, as the head archivist, with me, Tim, Melanie, and Basira. Though Basira is more of a hostage than an employee. A-and I don’t think any of us really want to work there, not after we found out what it was. Basira mostly reads all day. Tim has been avoiding all of us for a few months. I think he has been sneaking in after hours, but otherwise MIA. Melanie is frustrated, but oddly determined? She might be planning something.”

Jon was definitely paying more attention now, his gaze was sharper and his mouth hung slightly open, like it did when he was listening intently. 

“W-we didn’t realize you were missing for awhile,” Martin quietly admitted. “You weren’t around in the Archives much after you came back with Daisy and Basira, s-so I think we all just assumed you were okay, business as usual. W-we even tried to take live statements from a few people. It didn’t go well, they weren’t very coherent,” he laughed. 

Was Jon grinning? Just a tiny bit? He hoped so.

He turned more serious, “as soon as we found out what happened to you, we were all volunteering to help out to get you back. We care, Jon. Michael, you know the creepy finger guy, came up with the plan and got us here. Melanie and Basira tore into the stacks like nothing else to get information to help. Daisy, I’m pretty sure she’s just here to fight monsters, but I think she cares about getting you out of here too. A-and, I care, I care so much, Jon. I know that you care about us too, I’ve known ever since you were kind to me after Prentiss trapped me in my flat. Please, come back.” 

It’s a bit disjointed, a bit of an awful attempt at anchoring, but it worked. He blinked, once, twice, thrice, each time harder than the last. Finally, his eyes wided and he seemed to see Martin for the first time. He tried to say something, and Martin’s heart broke at the look of dismay on his face when nothing but air came out. He reached up to lightly touch his neck where his larynx was supposed to be and swallowed.

Martin’s hand shot up and grabbed Jon’s hand, shocking himself with his own confidence as he did so. “D-don’t worry Jon, we’re working on a way to get y-you back to your usual self,” Martin said. He gave him a comforting smile. 

Jon’s shoulders slowly relaxed down, having scrunched up as he panicked. He mouthed something, repeating the motion when Martin didn’t understand.

Martin was no mouth reader, but he finally got it. He was saying  _ Martin _ . 

“I hate to interrupt this emotional reunion, but I do not think even the Hunter can take on the entire Circus herself,” an echoing voice said from beside them. Oh good, Michael was finally showing his face again. “What do you say, Archivist?” Michael said, its arms wide. “Fancy a walk through my halls? I promise not to try to eat you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hallways. Michael would like to speak to the Archivist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this amazing [fanart](https://skeleton-draws-stuff.tumblr.com/post/623251854481031168/a-couple-scenes-from-willowwispflames-amazing) by [skeleton-draws-stuff](https://skeleton-draws-stuff.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! It is so good, give it all the love! She also made this fantastic [tma animation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BPSKo1oG6g&feature=emb_logo), which I cannot recommend enough. Give it a watch, it is seriously amazing!

“Oh, silly me,” Michael said, ruining its own dramatic entrance. “I forgot that you can’t speak to react to me being ominous.” Martin blinked and the Distortion’s form flickered. It seemed to teleport, going from standing next to them to next to the clothes rack in front of its door. It hip checked the rack, twisting the hangers dreadfully as it sailed back across the theater’s wing and hit a wall. The clothes ended up in a tangle on the floor.

“Daisy!” Martin called toward the stage as Michael opened the door with a too-many jointed hand. He started walking Jon towards the door. Like it or not, the Distortion was their getaway driver. Martin was pretty sure that they weren’t even in London anymore. 

Next to him, Jon eased off the Dancer’s head wrap and shook his short hair free. He ran a hand through the sweat-soaked strands. Then after a pause, he wrapped the cloth around his left forearm, over his sleeve. His eyes darted around like they had never seen the theater before. Maybe under the Stranger’s influence he was somewhere else entirely. 

Behind them, Daisy thrust a well-timed dagger into the face of the rubber monster and retreated. She started to charge toward them and Martin picked up the pace. Having the human equivalent of a lion running at you will do that, he thought. The remaining Dancers and what looked like a living Nutcracker Soldier, complete with bearskin hat and painted-on moustache, chased behind her. With a strong push that sucked the breath right out of Martin and Jon, they ran through the door, Daisy pushing all three of them into a pile inside the hallways.

Michael closed the door behind them, cutting off the cacophonous noises of the Circus like an airtight seal.

Daisy hopped up first, glaring from side to side at the walls that dared to twist between purple and green. Martin looked away as she started to pace around them.

He heaved himself up next, extending an arm down to pull Jon up as well. He brushed himself off and jumped at Michael suddenly appearing next to him, holding a wooden bat. 

“You dropped this,” it said flatly.

“Uh, thanks,” he said and took the bat carefully. When had he dropped it? It must have happened during the chaos when the Dancers surrounded him. 

Jon grabbed it from him and examined the new spiraling pattern the wood grain had taken on where Michael had touched it. 

“Sure, you can have that,” Martin said fondly. 

Jon nodded his head distractedly. He rocked back and forth a couple times before tucking the bat under his arm and taking a look around. 

Michael frowned, leaning forward slightly, and seemed to search Jon’s new face for something with its corkscrew eyes. It eventually leaned back with a pleased expression, folding its arms with its long hands extending to the sides like wings. “As delicious as it is to have you all visiting my halls, I think it is time that the Archivist returned to the Archives.”

“Why do you call him that, ‘The Archivist.’ He has a name you know,” Martin said. 

Michael’s grin curled up into his cheeks as it stretched. “What ownership does one have over a name? An identity? A face? None owns their own face when all is Strange. You call me Michael, but Michael is dead and what I am is not Michael. The Archivist was once Getrude Robinson, and Jonathan Sims is now the Circus’s Ringmaster. The Archivist is the Archivist, no matter the face. It makes things simpler.”

Daisy stopped her pacing and strode fearlessly right next to Michael. 

The Distortion visibly tilted its tall body away from hers like a flimsy tree blown horizontal by the wind. 

She glared down at it, unimpressed. “Well?” Daisy asked grumpily. “Lead the way. I want to get back before the Archers starts tonight.”

Michael sprung up next to Jon, who seemed more interested in how the carpet stuck to the tights covering his feet than the monster who laid a casual arm over his shoulder. “Buddy system,” Michael announced in a sing-song voice. “I call the Archivist as my buddy, grab yours or get lost in my halls. That’s how the buddy system works.”

Martin stammered, unwilling to leave Jon. 

Daisy rolled her eyes and strode over to Martin. She grinned at him sharply. “I got my buddy.” She frowned and leaned over to whisper in his ear. Martin tried to lean away, but she locked elbows with him. “Just humor this thing while we’re in here,” she said.

Martin nodded wildly, biting his bottom lip. He glanced over at Jon, who was slowly tilting over with Michael leaning on his head. Right, they just had to get through this next part, and then they’d be home free. 

<O>

Michael enjoyed walking through its corridors. He was allowed to stretch as he liked in his own domain. It was taking the little party the long way through its halls. Just to mess with them, it promised himself, not because Helen Richardson stalked the Ringmaster who clung to the skin of Jonathan Sims through the shortest path. Helen had become much too comfortable here, but he was not avoiding her. There was some fun to be gained in giving a tour of his home. 

It wondered if the Eye would rather have a silent Archivist, always listening, or one that could Ask questions. 

“By the way, Archivist, if you ever do want your old voice back to fill the void in your throat, I would be delighted to fetch it for you,” Michael whispered conspiratorially to its companion. “Just give me a knock.”

The Archivist Looked at him, sending slight shivers through the Distortion as the Eye tried to straighten it out. Michael held its nonexistent breath until he looked away and nodded. 

“I expect that you won’t hold the same regard for your old skin,” Michael continued with a smile plastered on its face. “Mostly because I will not return the Ringmaster or the skin of Jonathan Sims until both are destroyed in my halls. Much too risky to let that out.” It patted the Archivist’s shoulder lightly, who relaxed minutely. 

Michael noted some of the tenseness, which had crept into the Archivist’s spine since Martin Blackwood had pulled him out of the Stranger, flowing out of him. It glanced back at the Hunter and the Anchor, deaf to their conversation thanks to one of Michael’s twists. 

The Distortion hated the Archivist, Gertrude Robinson, very much, but it could hold some sympathy for the Archivist who was twisted free of his identity. Michael Shelly’s fate was different, but oh so similar to the Archivist’s current one. “Heed my advice Archivist,” it said slowly. “You are not It Is Not What It Is. The Stranger coats you and will not settle so long as you doubt. Decide on a name. 

“Try to reclaim Jonathan Sims, take on the names of your skin, find a new one, or do some combination thereof. Do not let them name you Jon, when you are not that any longer.”

Michael savored the smile the Archivist gave him. It hoped that he would pick a good one, but knew that there would be much strife in the choosing. He had a feeling that not all of the Assistants would immediately welcome a semi-Stranger into their stronghold. 

The exit to the Archives was near. Michael visibly slowed their pace, metaphysically pinching the floor between them and the other two until it was down and out of the way. Soon enough, Martin Blackwood and the Hunter caught up to where they were waiting at the door.

The Archivist nodded at Michael once before going to stand between Martin Blackwood and the Hunter. He stood closer to his Anchor. 

“Wh-what was that?” Martin Blackwood asked, slightly out of breath. “I tried to get your attention, but you didn’t react when I said something.”

“So many questions,” Michael purred. “So curious. I just wanted a private conversation with the Archivist. We aren’t done by the way,” he directed towards his ‘buddy.’ “I still have a story to tell you, later.”

The hungry look in the Archivist’s eyes did not go unnoticed. 

Martin Blackwood stepped slightly between them. How cute, he thought he could protect the Archivist when they were both inside of its halls.

The Hunter gazed suspiciously at the door, already antsy. Michael was quick to hold it open for her. See, no need to tear out its hinges. It was a good door that led to all the wrong places, this wrong place just happened to be the Archives. 

Melanie King and Basira Hussain called out greetings as the Hunter passed through, Martin Blackwood and the Archivist following directly behind. 

Michael paused before it closed its door. He could sense another one of its marks approaching from far away. Maybe it wouldn’t leave quite yet, this was sure to be another fantastic show. On second thought, it considered as the Hunter checked the time and found that she was much too late to listen to her radio show, maybe it should hide its door in a less noticeable place. 

Michael creaked its door shut. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They made it back to the Archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we made it over 15k words! Thank you all for 200+ kudos, 2200+ hits, and all the wonderful comments. I hope you enjoy this week's chapter as much as I did.

Melanie supposed that things could be worse. Sure she was literally stuck in a job that was supposed to be her stepping stone, be her way back into self-employment once the meme that became her life died down, but at least she had job security. She could at the very least use her self-taught researching skills and time stuck here to help someone. Jon wasn’t her favorite person, and might be becoming some sort of eyeball monster, but he definitely did not deserve to have his skin stolen like the original Sarah Baldwin. 

She shivered at the memory, reading over the supplemental research Jon had put together about the apparent monster she had encountered. The original Sarah had been taken by the creature that he so creatively called the Anglerfish, and her skin used to disguise something that had pretended to be a sound engineer and later worked at a taxidermy shop. Or maybe the Sarah she had met was a different creature from the one Jon and Daisy had confronted. Her Sarah Baldwin had been fleshy beneath the stolen skin, but judging from the tape the second one was filled with sawdust and cloves. 

Nonetheless, something that the second fake Sarah had said stuck in her mind. She replayed the tape out loud for Basira to head. Jon’s voice played, he asked slowly, static lacing his words, “ _ Are you the same Sarah Baldwin that disappeared in Edinburgh in August 2006? _ ”

‘Sarah’ responded, “ _ Some of her. Skin. A few memories. Not on the inside.” _ She sounded a bit like the one she met, but the hostile tone was new. 

Melanie swallowed. “So if Jon comes back with a new skin or whatever, we might have to worry about someone else’s memories coming along for the ride.”

“Maybe that’s how the imposter, Nikola, knew our names. I figured that she interrogated Jon, but maybe it was by more supernatural means,” Basira said.

“She also went by Sarah, when Jon asked for her name. When he Asks a question like that, you have to respond truthfully. So she actually believes that her name is Sarah Baldwin. It might just be a cover, but what if there’s more to it. Maybe something more than memories carries on with the skin.”

“It’s something to watch out for,” said Basira. “Having another person’s memories and your own sounds like an alarming clash of identity.”

A door creaked open. Basira and Melanie’s attention switched over to the yellow door that hung threateningly on the wall. It had opened. 

The spindly, long-fingered form of Michael was holding it open. Its long blond hair curled as Daisy stepped out, followed closely by Martin and someone that Melanie had never seen before. 

The first thing that struck her about Jon, as this new face must be Jon’s new look, was that he was wearing an absolutely outrageous outfit. Striped tights,  _ really _ . Second was that he no longer looked like he was of middle eastern descent. If she had to guess, she’d say he was Southeast Asian. Actually, if she had to guess, he looked a lot like Tim. 

The door creaked closed, Michael folding itself away and disappearing with a pop. 

Basira stepped forward, sharing a meaningful look with Daisy. “This him?”

“As best as I can tell, yes,” Daisy said.

Martin led Jon, Melanie would mentally call him Jon unless told otherwise, over to the couch. He sunk into it, handing over the bat which she distinctly remembered Daisy giving to Martin before they left. Martin tucked it next to the couch, telling Jon something quietly as Melanie walked over. He excused himself, and headed over to the breakroom. Probably to make some tea. 

Melanie looked over the new Jon carefully, as silent as he was as he regarded her in turn. She could definitely see the resemblance to Tim under those horizontal scars cutting across his face. What a pair they would make. Polka dots and stripes, she thought with dark humor. 

“Guess you can’t talk now,” she said casually. “Can’t say I won’t miss our screaming matches. Know any sign language?”

He shook his head despondently. Alright then. 

“Until we get you a phone or something, then how about- Hey Basira!” Melanie called. 

Basira looked over from where she was huddled with Daisy, debriefing maybe. She quirked an eyebrow.

“Mind bringing over that legal pad and pen on my desk?”

“Sure,” she said. Basira picked up the pad of paper and plucked a pen from the desk next to her and walked over, Daisy in tow. She handed it over to Melanie, who gave it to Jon. Daisy stood silently. 

He blinked, quickly scribbled,  _ thank you,  _ and turned the pad around for them to see. He caught on quick.

Martin returned with a mug of tea and handed it to Jon. He took it gratefully, setting the legal pad down next to him and blowing on it briefly before taking a sip. 

“So, how are you feeling?” Melanie asked.

He frowned, setting down the mug on the table and picking up his legal pad. He wrote,  ~~_ Not _ ~~ _ fine _ .

Melanie sent him a dubious look. Right.

“Having any problems with, uh, identity? Memories that might not be yours? There wasn’t much in the statements, but the implications were concerning.”

He shrugged unhelpfully. He started writing ferociously, slowing down when he realized that his handwriting was unintelligible cursive. Quickly scribbling it out, he then wrote carefully,  _ I’m not sure who I, we? Am. Are. I might have lost my name, briefly. Memories, not sure. Had my face stolen, not fun. _

“R-right,” Martin stammered. “How about we focus on your memories? Anything new, anything missing, uh,” he looked at Melanie. “Where should we start?“

“Uh, what do you remember about your parents?” Melanie asked.

Jon wrote down a single, simple word.  _ Dead _ . Right. Maybe no questions about family.

“Uh, what do you remember about working here?” Melanie asked. She looked at the others, who stared at her. “What, we probably know more about him at work than his personal life. Don’t want to step on any toes.”

He quickly wrote down a list of his work at the Magnus Institute. His research days, his promotion to Head Archivist, the worms, someone he called the tunnel man, and his stay with Georgie. He didn’t mention his paranoia, Sasha, or the various injuries he had picked up during his time away from the Institute. They focused on what he remembered first.

“The tunnel man?” Basira asked. “You mean Michael?”

He shook his head, and pointed at the Archives’ floor. The tunnels beneath the institute then, not the spooky hallways. Well, they were both freaky, just in different ways. And apparently they both had men living in them. 

“Does the tunnel man have a name?” 

He thought for a second, and then wrote down,  _ the book guy _ .  _ Worked with Gertrude, lived in tunnels, got beat up by goth. Elias killed him _ . 

“Do you mean Jurgen Leitner?” Martin squeaked. “Uh, right. Details. How’d Elias kill him?”

Jon wrote,  _ bloody pipe. Really gross. Don’t want to know.  _

“How about Georgie, what do you remember about her?” Melanie asked.

_ Ex girlfriend _ , he scribbled.  _ Now a good friend. Has the Admiral. Love that cat. We met in university. We were roommates. Has a fantastic podcast. _

“Sounds about right,” she confirmed. 

“What about the worms?” Basira asked. Melanie got the feeling that she was looking over Jon’s scarred face carefully. “Do you remember Jane Prentiss?”

_ Worms. Bad.  _ He underlined ‘bad’ several times, almost obsessively. Martin put a gentle hand on his wrist, snapping him out of it. He shrugged.

“How about us,” Martin asked. “You remember our names, right?” 

Jon nodded.  _ Martin, Melanie, Basira, Daisy, Timmy. _

Martin gave him a weird look. 

“Do you remember Sasha?” Melanie asked curiously, dismissing the weird nickname. 

_ Who? _ Jon wrote.

“Sasha, she was one of the other assistants. She was replaced by a Stranger,” Basira explained.

_ Don’t remember her _ .

“Definitely missing some memories then,” Basira said. “I’m sure the gaps will make themselves more obvious eventually.”

“Do you remember getting hurt by the, what did you call them? The avatars. The people you spoke to before Daisy and Basira brought you in. You had a wicked burn on your hand, and were cut on the throat a bit,” said Melanie. “On top of the worm scars of course.”

He shook his head.  _ No, I don’t remember anything like that _ .  _ No scars except this _ . He gestured at his face with a white-gloved hand. The stark white caught Melanie’s attention, it was almost like a magician’s glove. Used to misdirect and draw attention away from the mechanics behind the magic act. 

“Why’d you write Tim as Timmy?” Martin asked, busting out of his silence. Melanie was suddenly reminded of the resemblance between Tim and Jon’s new face. Uh oh. 

She saw that Martin’s face lingered on Jon’s as well, and hoped that the others were drawing the same conclusion as her so that she wouldn’t have to point it out. 

The door to the Archives opened and closed behind them. Melanie saw Daisy look away in the corner of her eye and turned as well.

Ah. There was Tim. For better or for worse, this tension would burst. He walked over, visibly curious at what they were all crowded around. “What’s all the fuss about?” he said. “Did the boss hurt himself again?”

“Not quite,” Melanie mumbled, wanting but unable to look away. 

Tim shouldered his way into the circle, and stared dumbfounded at Jon, who held up the legal pad where he had written in clear letters,  _ He’s my brother. I can call him Timmy _ . 

“Danny?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm happy to confirm some of your headcanons. We aren't done yet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim makes his return and reunites with his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer than usual, and a couple hours earlier as well, update! Enjoy!
> 
> Do mind the tags again for this chapter, especially the skinning, blood and previously unused Implied/Reference Self-Harm tags.

Tim’s life, in the moment, was shit.

Sasha was gone, really gone, and he was a wreck about it. The same sort of creature that took his brother took her, killed her and replaced her and left them none the wiser. How had they not realized? How had he thought that creature was his longest friend? He found that old album she had insisted he keep, full of old pictures. He found her there, in one of the old photos he had from when they were both teenagers, a polaroid taken with her dad’s old camera, with  _ Sasha & Tim 1996 _ written on the white in dark marker. He didn’t recognize the girl next to him in the photo. Six months, six months since the Prentiss attack, six months that creature had taken the place in his heart and mind reserved for her. 

If only Tim had gotten nostalgic and looked through this sooner. He could have done something. What could he have done? Killed it himself? Warn the others? Would things have gone better? 

Tears puddled on the protective plastic shielding the last evidence of Sasha’s existence. 

He didn’t have old pictures like this one of the others working at the Archives now. If one of them was replaced like Sasha had been, he would have no idea. Tim had never doubted the person he was closest to when she had been replaced by something else. How could he trust himself to realize when one of the others was replaced too, especially when he knew them not even half as much? 

Martin, Melanie, even those cops. They could be replaced and he would never know, so maybe it was better to stop trusting them in the first place. He couldn’t be betrayed that way. With Jon, he could at least trust to be the same asshole he’d always been, especially with those freaky powers he was gaining. He was the same, even if he had changed since their days in research. Was still changing. He’d pushed them away after Prentiss, and Tim recognized the same distrust in his boss’s eyes that he was just starting to feel now. It hurt, it hurt so bad that had distanced himself from them, but he could recognize why at some level. Jon had caught on subconsciously to what had happened before anyone else, except maybe freaking Elias.

Tim turned the page of the small album, coming across a picture taken on Danny’s 10th birthday. The birthday boy smiled at the camera widely, showing off a newly missing tooth and sitting in front of his cake. He was holding up his new gameboy in the next picture. He looked so much younger than he remembered, but still, to Tim’s relief, the same Danny he had always been. 

Danny is why he went to the Institute, drawn there like a moth to flame. He was going to find out what had taken his brother, and then get his revenge. Revenge for Danny, and now revenge for Sasha too. That damned circus and Joseph Grimaldi, they’d pay for what they did. 

<O>

“Danny?” Tim said, voice aching with hope.

His knees felt weak. He couldn’t believe his eyes even as they scanned the familiar face before him. His mind sang,  _ Danny, my brother, Danny, you’re back, Danny I missed you so much _ . 

Danny was wearing some awful costume.  _ Like in a circus _ , he thought. All stripes and dark colors contrasting with white. His eyes hung on the scars that crossed his brother’s face, the marks which served as a stark reminder for what Tim had witnessed. 

A dozen different scenarios ran through Tim’s head, everything from an imposter (like Sasha) to Danny somehow surviving the circus for four years and for some reason coming to the Institute first to give a statement. Or maybe he knew that Tim was working here, impossibly, somehow. 

The eyes that watched Tim from his brother’s face were not Danny’s, a small voice in the back of his head remarked. They were familiar, but they were not his brother’s eyes. Those eyes were-

The others were babbling something that Tim didn’t hear. He’d sunk to his knees at some point, and wrapped his arms around Danny’s stiff form to hug him. His brother made no sound, shifting in his embrace like he couldn’t remember a kind touch. Tim shifted back, keeping his hands on Danny’s shoulders. 

“Danny,” said Tim helplessly. “Danny, is that you? Are you my brother?”

Martin’s heavy hand was like a hot brand on his shoulder. Tim half turned towards him. 

“He can’t talk, Tim,” said Martin. “They took his voice. A-and I’m sorry, but that’s Jon, not D-Danny. I know that he might look like him, and there’s a really good explanation, I promise, but-”

Tim was frozen, mind racing, trying to put together puzzle pieces that just wouldn’t fit together. He choked out a question, “how?”

The others watched, eyes flicking between Martin and Tim like a tennis match. Danny or Jon, or whoever, Tim just wanted his brother back, was looking at him with wide, too familiar eyes that simply didn’t fit his face. 

“J-Jon was kidnapped, by the, the Circus of the Other? You got the message in the, the group chat that he was back, but that wasn’t him. Jon came back and he wasn’t himself, he was an imposter, acted like a stranger pretending to be him, and when we found out we went there and rescued him. And he looked like this.”

His head was swimming, questions bubbling up and popping into his head as Martin tried to explain. How had his boss gotten Danny’s face? The scars half answered that. What had happened to Jon? Who did he have to kill for hurting him?  _ Who dared to pretend to be the Archivist? _ Something dark and watching whisper-asked. When had the Circus become relevant again? Where were they, and how could Tim go there and destroy them? The details didn’t really matter though, Tim just wanted his brother back. His eyes caught on the last phrase written on Danny’s legal pad. 

_ I can call him Timmy _ .

“Only two people have ever called me Timmy,” said Tim, cutting off Martin. “My mum and Danny. Mum is buried in St. Mary’s, and my brother’s face is right in front of me.” Even if he was different, changed by whatever supernatural bullshit had happened to him, he was Danny. Tim was sure of it now.

“Well he’s not Danny,” said Martin. “He might look it, but he’s Jon on the inside.”

Melanie tried to interject, something about the Stranger and memories, but Tim didn’t hear it. He felt bad about it but he was hyper-focused on Martin now. He rose up, turning to Martin to speak directly. 

His voice rose angrily, “Jon wouldn’t call me Timmy, wouldn’t call me brother. Not when he’s too paranoid to trust anyone but himself.”

Martin’s face grew red at the volume, but didn’t back down as Tim half-expected. “Is it so hard to believe that, with all of the spooky nonsense we’ve had to deal with, that a nickname doesn’t mean he’s your brother? Because he’s not, he’s Jon!”

“Is it so hard to believe that with all the spooky nonsense we’ve dealt with, that my brother could come back from being skinned!” Tim snarked back harshly. “This is Danny, I don’t care if he’s changed!”

“He might have  _ some _ memories from Danny, sure, but he’s still Jon! Mentally, he’s Jon, he’s got his brain.”

The argument devolved from there. Tim’s stubborn hope and Martin’s determined conviction shoved back and forth. 

“He’s my brother!”

“No he’s not!”

A flash of red from the corner of Tim’s eye, but before he could turn and see what happened, Melanie and Daisy were between them, pushing Tim and Martin apart and maneuvering them towards the exit, to the break room. Martin went pale as he met Daisy’s eyes, and she stepped towards him. Melanie squabbled at Tim like a woodlark as she shoved him towards the door. 

She was yelling, “Idiots, you two are idiots, shut up and listen to me for  _ one second _ or I swear I’ll bust your kneecaps.”

Tim was very distracted by the concentrated ball of rage that was Melanie, but he was still a bit taller than her. So when he looked reflexively back to check on Danny, he had a clear line of sight to see first a red stain left on the couch and legal pad, and then speckled drips leading like a trail to the door of Jon’s office, where he just barely glimpsed Basira slamming the door shut behind her.

He immediately tried pushing past her, which only enraged Melanie further. 

“No, get into the break room Tim, now!”

“What happened? Is Danny hurt? Is that blood?” Martin had already closed his mouth, but at the mention of anyone being hurt he snapped to attention. 

Daisy slammed the door shut behind them and leaned against the wall next to it.

“While you two  _ idiots _ were distracted arguing,  _ he _ was sitting right there listening to you!” Melanie’s voice went dangerously quiet, “he just got back from being kidnapped by a freaky torture circus that literally skinned him alive and sewed a new one on. He didn’t react well to you two bringing that up right in front of him.” She started yelling again, “So freaking shut up and sit down and give him some space to calm down before he hurts himself more! Aaurghh.” 

Tim and Martin obediently sat at the breakroom table. Tim glanced at Martin, who returned his look of dismay. They’d messed up. They’d really messed up, and now Tim's brother was hurting.

“Now you two listen real close, alright?” Melanie asked, calmer but still with a hard edge to her voice. “Let him tell us, when he is ready and able, what he wants to be called. He just got back from being kidnapped by a cult that specializes in identity issues, so let him figure it out for himself.”

Tim started to open his mouth, but shut it when Melanie shot a glare his way. 

“We found a statement where a literal avatar of the Stranger was convinced that the name they’d stolen was their own, we don’t know what that sort of influence is going to do to  _ him _ . He might go by Danny, he might go by Jon. We don’t know.”

“He might go by something completely different,” Daisy said from her station. She shrugged when they looked over at her. She was playing with her loose ponytail. 

Melanie sighed, slumping into a chair across from Martin and massaging her temples. “Georgie mentioned that Jon said he’d gotten his own flat before he dropped off the face of the Earth. Put a few months rent into it too. How much do you bet that he doesn’t remember where it is?”

They let that question stew for a minute before Tim got sick of it. He sat up and said, “I think I’m missing some important information about what’s been going on. Since when were we dealing with the Circus? The last statement we got about it was Leanne Denikin’s, and that was last year. It was a dead end.”

“R-right, you have been out of the loop,” Martin said. “Since they,” he waved a hand at Daisy, “started working here, I guess. W-well, Jon’s been having us look into stopping the Unknowing.”

“And what, exactly is that?” Tim asked, leaning forward. “And what does it have to do with the Circus of the Other?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New arc! New arc! New arc! So far we've had the Dress Rehearsal, then the Rescue Mission. This chapter transitions us into what I'll tentatively call World Travels for now. 
> 
> They do say that traveling to new places can help one find oneself. And we'll get a name for the Archivist come next chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archivist chooses a name.

Basira caught sight of Daisy and Melanie guiding the boys out of the Archives right before slamming the door to the Head Archivist’s office behind her. She took a moment to close her eyes and breathe in and out, before assessing the situation further. 

Jon, or she supposed she should call him the Archivist until the name situation was figured out. The Archivist was sitting at his high back leather office chair, gingerly prodding at his cheek with a bloodstained leather glove. 

The cut was along one of the horizontal scars that twisted around his face and head like mummy wrappings. It probably wasn’t deep, all head wounds bleed a lot, but how it happened worried Basira deeply. The Archivist had caught her eye as he watched the back and forth of Tim and Martin’s argument. He had slowly reached up a hand, _pulled_ on his cheek, dragging his fingers down his face and opening the scar like nothing, simply letting the vibrant red blood run down his face and over his gloved fingers.

 _Seams_ , her mind provided. _Like a torn seam on a poorly stitched cloth._

Basira quickly swiped a handful of tissues from the box atop of the filing cabinet next to her. She then stepped forward and carefully pressed it against his cheek, the Archivist’s hand coming up to take and secure it himself. He nodded at her once through watering eyes. 

“I’m guessing you don’t want to be called Jon, or Danny I guess, then?” Basira asked. Hopefully the question was not too blunt.

The Archivist shook his head. No. 

“Alright, we can work with that, then. Last names off the table? You could go by Sims.”

Another shake of the head.

“I guess Stoker is off the table as well, especially with Tim here,” she paused. “That could get confusing.”

He shrugged. 

Basira peeked through the glazed glass window in the door giving the office its sought after privacy. She could not see very well through the blurs, but it looked like the common area was empty. 

“Looks like Melanie and Daisy cleared them out to calm down,” she noted, and turned to lean on the door instead. “I’m sure there’s some paper in here somewhere for you to write on, no promises on a good pen though. Melanie stole the good ones.”

The Archivist looked at her blankly for a moment before letting out a snort and grinning. He winced as his grin widened too much, making his injured cheek hurt. The smile, despite the pained wince, looked natural on his face, so similar to Tim’s now that she really looked. But Jon never smiled as wide as that, she shivered.

Keeping the tissues pressed with his bloodied hand, he single-handedly slid open a drawer of stationary and wiggled free a composition notebook. He flopped it onto the desk, skipping a good two thirds of the way through the notebook before opening to a blank page. A worn, dented pencil found its way to the page, clasped securely in his clean hand. He looked up at Basira in askance.

Those sharp eyes grounded her. Weird, supernatural, yet familiar. Not Strange, never Strange.

“Right,” she said and dragged the chair, for statement givers she knew, closer. “Let’s figure out how much you remember, because I think your memories are all jumbled around between Jon’s and Danny’s.”

He scribbled something down. _Jeremy. Brian. Christina._

Basira squinted. She asked, “names? For yourself?” 

The Archivist shook his head dismissively. _Scraps,_ he wrote. Then, as if realizing that wasn’t the best explanation, he unwrapped the fabric wound around his arm, tossed it onto his desk, and slowly rolled down the tight sleeve.

Basira stared. 

As she had expected, the scars from his face continued down his arm, twirling along to his still-gloved wrist, but she hadn’t foreseen this. In between the scars were thin streaks of differently colored skin, both lighter and darker than Danny’s. They were more clumped together, common near his wrist, and seemed to fill holes in the main skin, like patches. 

“Okay then,” she breathed. “Some others as well. That’s. That’s fine, we can work with this.”

The Archivist shot her a look of disbelief so entirely _Jon_ that it jolted her to see it on the face of a stranger. A slight widening of the eyes and a lift of the brow which reminded her viscerally that the man she thought of as a friend was living in the skin of another, despite the memory problems. 

They went back and forth, the Archivist detailing some memory of the Archives or the people within it, confirming with Basira, and continuing. They had not known each other for long. _But who really did know Jon_ , she wondered. The name Melanie had mentioned, Georgie, Jon’s ex? His roommate? She might be able to help, though maybe they should be discrete in how they involved her. They didn’t need another hostage in the Archives.

They confirmed that yes, the Archivist remembered the names of all of his assistants, plus Daisy and Elias and, to her slight surprise, the secretary Rosie. He was fuzzier on some of the details on the recent additions, though Basira was pretty sure that Jon hadn’t been close enough with them to know. Favorite drinks and birthday dates were off the table, though Basira had noted once months ago that the calendar he had hanging on the wall had at the very least Martin’s birthday noted and circled in red pen. 

He knew the most about Tim and Martin, which was to be expected. Tim was his ‘brother,’ and he was close with Martin. 

Still, there were inconsistencies. He remembered the worm attack, the death of Jurgen Leitner, and his encounters with the avatars, but asking him directly about the marks they left drew a blank. Questions about Elias went alarmingly unanswered at times, like he couldn’t remember anything about the man at all except that he was the institute’s head and that he had killed Leitner. 

When asked, he explained through writing that his memories were all jumbled together, some like they had happened to a different person, some were blanks until she called attention to them, and some he could not remember at all. One moment he was sure that he had grown up with only his grandmother as a guardian with the rest of his family passed away, the next he was certain that his parents were distant but still around. He remembered dating Georgie in university, but could not recall if he had friends other than her at the time. If he did, he could not recall their names. He remembered his Master’s thesis, but his undergraduate work was a confusing blur. He remembered at once having an active lifestyle and also being a shut-in bookworm. 

She hesitantly asked him about his kidnapping, he did not remember being taken or the month that he spent as the circus’s prisoner. He did remember the time he spent as a Dancer, but not how it had happened. Just that one day he was Dancing with the circus, and that was that until Martin and Daisy had come for him. When she pressed him on what being a Dancer involved, he clammed up, so she changed topics. 

“Do you,” Basira hesitated. “Do you have a name in mind for yourself? I’ve been calling you the Archivist in my head and it reminds me too much of Elias. Uh, you could go by some combination of Jon and Danny, how about Jonny?”

His face screwed up like he had just tasted something sour. 

“Don?” “Dannathan?” “You could steal Michael’s name.” “Jan?” “John with an H?” “Dahnny with an H?”

Each suggestion Basira gave was immediately shot down. Finally, the Archivist held up a hand, halting her brainstorming. He wrote down _Jonathan Sims,_ and then below that _Danny Stoker_ . With a few flicks of his wrist, he crossed out the start of his original name, all of _Sims_ and _Danny_ , then circled and rewrote what was left.

 _Nathan Stoker_. 

“Huh,” Basira said. “Nathan, that is a good name.”

Nathan preened, shooting her that eerily unfamiliar-yet-familiar smile once more. 

She ran her eyes over the name, lingering on the surname. Basira was not certain what Tim’s reaction to his boss becoming his brother would be, but given Nathan’s supernaturally induced delusions, she would run with it for now. 

Tim could choose for himself whether or not he would accept him as his brother. She couldn’t judge what his decision would be based on his initial reaction. As long as she had known the Archives, Tim had been rather cold toward Jon, as if there was something gone wrong between the two. Maybe things would be better between Tim and Nathan, maybe they would shatter beyond repair. 

Basira wasn’t sure if the pain of losing a brother outweighed the pain of gaining one in this case.

Basira grabbed another handful of tissues as she saw a new line of red drip down his cheek. “Here, I think those are soaked,” she said and nudged the plastic trash can closer with her foot. “This might need stitches,” she mused as he tossed the first wad of tissues away, taking the next batch from her and pressing against the flesh of his cheek. “Keep the pressure on it,” she said. “I’ll be right back, are you okay to be by yourself while I go grab the med-kit?”

Basira made sure he nodded affirmatively before slipping out of the office. Right, the first aid kit she’d made sure to restock was over there. It had plenty of gauze, antibiotics, plasters, and pain killers. She remembered Martin suggesting to add a pair of tweezers and a corkscrew with a slight smile. The sterilizing alcohol and peroxide had been her idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the hilarious name guesses in the comments last chapter. I hope y'all don't mind me borrowing them for a gag!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias checks in with the Archivist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this absolutely amazing [fanart](https://belleski.tumblr.com/post/625985073568694272/okthese-were-supposed-to-just-be-warm-up) by [belleski](https://belleski.tumblr.com/)!!! I've been looking at it all day while writing, I love it so much!
> 
> Alternate description for this chapter: Elias continues his job as a plot device.  
> He can get a little POV, as a treat.

Elias flipped through the stack of forms he had Rosie print out for him. The papers were still warm. Luckily, he smirked, they had some history with employees needing a new identity after their previous was stolen. The Stranger was such a nasty thing, with such pointless anger pointed at the Eye for daring to see through its masks.

He flicked his Gaze down to the Archives, and grabbed a discrete first aid box from under his desk before heading down. It would not do to have any blood spill on anything important. His plans might benefit from a more sympathetic angle. 

Extra lucky was the fact that he did not have to come up with an entirely new person. Daniel ‘Danny’ Stoker was once one in his own right. Reported missing circa four years ago, swiftly pronounced dead, survived by his brother Timothy and two distant parents. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to suggest that young Danny Stoker had gotten involved with the wrong crowd, and changed his name to escape. The scars certainly helped to prove the point.

Some digging revealed a deactivated bank account, clean driving record, and a criminal record clean until the end, when it was dotted with a couple trespassing charges. No sightings since his last fateful excursion. 

Elias made his way down to the basement, Seeing the Assistants holed up in the breakroom were much too distracted to notice him slip into the Archives. He Saw that Basira had left his Archivist’s office only a few moments prior to venture farther into the stacks and find a first aid kit of her own. Elias strode across the room, entering the office and locking the door behind himself before finally turning towards his Archivist. 

He met his eyes first, wide with surprise, checking as always that there had been no undue replacements made. Expectedly, those hidden depths belonging only to those who served the Beholding were present in them. The Stranger was good at its job, but could never mimic the spark of life in its dolls. The eyes were the window to the soul, after all. 

Elias tsked as he looked over the rest of the Archivist. He had never planned for the mark of the Stranger to set in this deep, cloaking the Eye’s influence as it tried to claim his Archivist for itself. Most of the other marks were still present, their hooks more than skin deep, but their power was lessened by the cloak of the Stranger. Scars were very effective as a visual reminder. 

“Welcome back, Archivist,” Elias said pleasantly. He spied the notebook sitting on the desk. “Or I suppose I should call you Nathan now, then?”

The Archivist nodded warily, keeping his eyes on Elias. Good, there was that spark of the Eye peeking out from under the mask. There was anger, too. Elias guessed that if he could speak, Nathan would be making quite the fuss about how long it took to return. Or maybe that was how Jon would respond, not Nathan. 

He eyed the bloody tissue the Archivist kept pressed up to his cheek. “I brought a first aid kit,” Elias said, pulling the box out from behind his stack of papers. He set it down on the desk. A peace offering. “If you would like, I could take care of bandaging it for you.”

The Archivist opened the kit, thumbing through the supplies, and pulled out a piece of gauze and medicinal tape. He glanced up at Elias once before shaking his head and taking care of bandaging his cheek himself. Nathan shared that same reluctance to be vulnerable with Jon, then. 

Elias set the stack of paperwork down next. “Fill out these forms and bring them to Rosie by the end of the week,” he said. “The Circus has long been one of our rivals, and we have certain procedures put in place to help victims,” he explained and slid the papers towards Nathan. 

Finished bandaging his cheek, the Archivist flipped through the forms, pausing on one to look up at Elias. 

“Ah yes, I figured that having a valid passport might be useful,” Elias said smugly. “You never know these days when you might need to take some time away overseas. Gertrude did enjoy her trips. Do remember to sign as Nathan Stoker, and go to Rosie for a picture id. Ah, and before I forget,” he said and pulled out a lanyard out of his suit pocket. He handed it to the Archivist. The lanyard itself was standard issue, patterned with the owl insignia of the Magnus Institute, the end having a slot for a keycard. “We are switching to electronic locks in addition to physical, Rosie should be able to print you a custom keycard to the building, and here,” he pulled out a card. “This one will work temporarily until yours is done.”

The Archivist was looking increasingly overwhelmed. 

Elias smirked. “Tomorrow, we can look into what needs to be done to retrieve your skin-”

The Archivist clenched his body, digging a gloved hand into his forearm. 

Elias watched curiously. “Or,” he adjusted, “if you are rather attached to your current one, we can focus on getting your voice back. Being able to speak and assert yourself will help with the, for lack of a better word, dysphoria that comes with the Stranger’s touch. Adjusting to a new body can be troublesome. You might find that there are unexpected changes to your tastes or personality. Relationship lines to be redrawn. New facts about yourself to be confronted.”

He relaxed, loosening his grip, and nodded. For the first time since Elias had entered, his hand inched to the pen resting next to his notebook. He glanced at Elias once, judging his reaction, before jotting something down. 

After a moment, he turned the notebook around for Elias to see. He had written,  _ Why do you know so much about this? _

Elias was pleased to see that his Archivist had caught himself on that particular bait. He noted that the question was the one of the most complete thoughts he had penned to paper after his return as well. Too bad the question lacked any compulsion behind it, bound as such to ink and paper. “You are not the only one to walk away from an encounter with the Stranger,” he said mildly.

_ You? _ Nathan scribbled.

Elias decided to humor him, thinking back to an experience in his youth. He had not planned on going the sympathetic route with Jon, but perhaps Nathan required a gentler hand to bloom as an Archivist. Entrusting him with an anecdote from his youth placed a lot of confidence in his fledgling project, a risk that Elias was willing to take. “I was only just growing into my power at the time,” he explained haltingly, half an eye on the hallway to make sure that nothing more than a tape recorder was listening in. “Much less wary, or even aware, of the Stranger and its machinations. One of its creatures was in the habit of swapping people’s features. Noses and limbs and hair and such. Some minor mayhem,” he shifted. “They thought it would be ‘funny’ to swap the eyes of myself and one of my coworkers, younger and lower on the ladder than I. Neither I nor the creature expected that the Eye would take issue, as I suddenly found myself inhabiting a very different body than before. You might have noticed in your paranoia-fueled research that I was quite different beforehand. I dealt with the aftermath as well as could be expected, taking on my name and working my way up again, becoming the Institute’s head after James Wright’s death.” His expression turned wry, and he said, “Before you ask, the body I had before turned into a lifeless husk, and my past self’s urges still nudge me around from time to time.”

The Archivist sat back, somewhat fuller. His Eyes brighter from the snack of a secret Elias had fed him. 

Elias looked him over carefully and glanced at the humming tape recorder sitting on the spare chair. “While I do not expect you to comply with my wishes on the matter, I do ask that you not share this with anyone else,” he said, popping the tape out of the recorder. “You might not have the best opinion of me, but my influence does keep the Institute safe from other forces’ meddling.”

Nathan clutched at his notebook, clicking his pen in and out. He nodded once. 

They regarded each other, each looking the other over. Nathan did so warily, Elias was still incredibly curious over the changes to his Archivist. Another tape had manifested in the tape recorder as soon as Elias had removed the previous one. 

Elias smiled. “Please do remember to fill out those forms, and keep in mind your travel options. There are some excellent conventions for archivists to attend.”

Nathan tapped his notebook with the end of his pen.  _ Unknowing? _

“I had guessed that you would have learned from your experience with the Circus that it is a dance that requires a Danseuse Étoile and a specialized costume for them to wear, the costume and the location of the dance are malleable, but the Danseuse Étoile is rather more difficult to procure.”

_ Nikola. Jon’s skin. Wax Museum _ .

“Indeed,” Elias said. How interesting that the Archivist was already referring to his old self in the third person. “The Distortion stepped in to capture Nikola while she was weakened in our domain, so the Circus will be abuzz without its Ringmaster for some time.”

_ Show must go on _ . 

“I imagine that they do have backups even for her, though we do have more time than we did before,” he said. “I believe Gertrude had something planned for disrupting the ritual itself, if all else fails,” Elias said. “She got, well she was very good at hiding things even from my Eyes, so I do not know exactly what she was planning.”

_ Anyone else know? Leitner and Gerard died. Anyone alive? _

“I do not know of anyone that Gertrude worked with who is still alive, but. Sorry, does that say Gerard? Gerard Keay?”

Nathan blinked, and looked down at the words he had written, running a finger over the drying ink. He nodded.

“Who told you- No, how did you know that Gerard worked with Gertrude?”

_ Read it somewhere. _

“I don’t think you read it, I think you just knew it.”

Nathan looked increasingly flustered, his handwriting devolving into nervous scribbles. 

Elias put a hand on the notebook, stopping him. He smiled encouragingly. “It is a promising development, Nathan, I assure you. This is good.”

His Archivist set down his pen with a clatter, wringing his gloved hands. He was staring at the notebook, at what he had written, like it had insulted him. 

“Gertrude did work together with Gerard, right up until he passed away. If we retrace their steps, then we could work out what she had planned for the Unknowing,” Elias paused to send Nathan another proud look, trying to tease him out of his anxious spiral. “I’ll see what I can do to turn up some statements, and find a way to get you back your voice. For now, you only need to work on these forms and settle into your new status quo. Good job, Nathan.”

He looked up and met Elias’s gaze. 

“See you soon, Nathan,” Elias said with one last gesture at the stack of paperwork. He left the first aid kit. After that, he left the office, shutting the door behind him as he came face to face with a very irate looking Basira.

“Elias,” she seethed. “What do you want.”

He put up his hands halfway in a parody of submission. “Just dropping off some paperwork,“ he said with a smug smile. 

She shoved past him, jostling his shoulder as she entered the office. 

Elias left the Archives with a pep in his stride. He smiled pleasantly as he passed by the Assistants and Daisy filing out of the breakroom. 

Tim and Melanie both snarled at him. Martin shied back, wary. Daisy met his gaze evenly. He left them alone, for now. Maybe he would entertain himself with Watching them later. 

For now, he had to deal with several years of back pay for Michael, find those statements he had set aside, and make a call to an old acquaintance. He still had a favor to cash in with Ursula after all these years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I will write something from Nathan's POV. That day is not today, but it will come someday.
> 
> Also, made it over 20k word!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan figures out how to speak.

Basira glared at the door after she slammed it shut behind her. Elias gave her the creeps, and how he visited Nathan while she was gone did not sit right with her. She looked over to the Archivist, who met her eyes for a moment before looking about down at a stack of papers. He filled out some of the lines and signed at the bottom before setting the top sheet aside. 

She eyed the bandage on his cheek and set the kit she had retrieved by the one that had appeared on his desk. “So, what did Elias want?” she asked. 

His hand darted over to his notebook to write. 

Basira walked over and watched over his shoulder, glancing at the next sheet of paper in his stack as she waited. It looked like one of the legalese forms Elias had her fill out after he tricked her into working here. She squinted at the top, Basira was relatively certain that Jon’s birthday was not in October, but maybe it was Danny’s. Or one of the others. 

Nathan wrote,  _ He gave me bandages and some work to do. Paperwork, mostly. Need ‘Rosie’ to take a picture of me. Information on Unknowing. Will write a transcript of the recording later. _ He paused, raising the end of his pen to his mouth in thought, but not chewing on it like Basira expected.  _ Told me a story. _ He set his pen down and sat back in his chair, rolling out from the desk slightly to look up at Basira next to him. 

She hummed, looking over what he had written, the snippets of what she assumed was his conversation with Elias distracting her. There was not much, and most of it was out of context, but the bit about Leitner and a ‘Gerard Keay’ worried her. 

Nathan shuffled around the papers, lurching slightly as a weighty rectangular object and a set of keys slid out from somewhere in the middle. He dumped the papers on the desk and scooped up the keys from where they had fallen onto the floor, setting them next to a black and green lanyard that had appeared while Basira had been gone. Nathan made a small, pleased sound, one of the first she had heard from the Archivist since his return, as he pressed a button on what she now saw was a smart phone and the screen lit up. Basira did not want to know where on Earth Elias retrieved Jon’s phone from, given that he was most likely kidnapped with it and the device dumped. 

Nathan set his phone down and attached the key ring to the lanyard, sliding in a card into the holder afterwards. He slipped it around his neck and looked up at Basira, who realized she had been staring. 

“Uh, right,” she said. She heard some sounds of movement from outside the office. “I’m going to let the others know about the, uh, new name, alright?” Basira gestured towards the door. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

Nathan nodded distractedly, starting to mess around with his phone again. 

Basira let herself out. 

It looked like everyone had returned from wherever Melanie had ushered them away to, and all looked up expectantly as she exited the office. 

“How is he?” Martin immediately asked, sharp as always to take care of his boss.

“Better, now,” Basira said. She paused as the group let out a collective sigh. “He split one of the scars on his cheek while you two were arguing,” she said. “It bled a lot, but we got a plaster on it, so hopefully it will heal up.” She did not mention that it was Elias who brought said bandage. 

“About that,” Melanie said. “Did he figure out a name? I don’t want to, you know. Only if he has one decided, I don’t want to pressure him.” 

Basira bit her bottom lip slightly. “He decided on Nathan, as in Nathan Stoker,” she said. “For now,” she added on, still not one hundred percent sure he would not change his mind. Though, that paperwork looked official enough that the name might be permanent. 

Tim choked. 

“Wh-what?” Martin said. 

“Thought he might choose a new one,” Daisy said, vindicated. 

“Right,” Melanie breathed. “And mentally? How is he?”

Basira made her way to her desk, sitting on her office chair and giving it a spin. “He doesn’t have all of Jon’s nor Danny’s memories, more like a mix of both. And some extra, too,” she said. At their curious looks, she added, “His arm, he showed me, was a patchwork of some other people’s skin as well, all spiraling up his wrist. He mentioned a few other names, I think some other victims were mixed in there as well.”

“Poor Jon,” Martin said quietly. He sat up and looked at the head archivist’s door and corrected, “I mean, poor Nathan.”

“We all need to be careful to only call Nathan what he wants to be called. We don’t want him hurting himself again,” Basira reminded them.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Melanie said. Basira knew that she too had seen what Nathan had done to himself as Tim and Martin argued.

Tim was quiet. 

Daisy nudged him at Basira’s glance. “Stoker? Do you,” Daisy trailed off awkwardly. “Do you need some time?”

“Yeah,” Tim choked out. He swiftly grabbed his things and stood up. “I need to,” he paused, swaying. “I need to think. Lots of stuff, too much stuff to think about today,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Please,” he cut off as his voice cut off in a sob. “Make sure that Da- That Nathan. That he gets a good place to sleep tonight. Please. Please call me if no one else has space, he can crash at mine, like.” Tim cut himself off again, and rushed out in a flurry of movement. 

Martin surged up after him, looking back and forth, conflicted, between the exit and the head archivist’s office door. 

“Go,” Basira said. “We’ll make sure Nathan gets home okay.”

“Thanks,” he said and rushed out after his friend. 

“So, Georgie said that Jon got his own flat right before he went missing,” Melanie said. “That’s the reason why she didn’t report him missing, apparently. But, I have no idea where his place is.”

“I don’t think any of us do,” Basira said after a moment. 

“ _ Hello _ ,” an unfamiliar, robotic, male voice said, making them all jump. Basira swung her chair around to see Nathan standing at his door with a big grin. He quickly tapped something onto his phone, and the same voice said in a heavily British accent, “ _ I figured out text to voice. _ ” The voice was very disjointed, sounded tinny coming from the small phone speaker, and not smooth at all, but Nathan had a way to communicate vocally. He was shaking, but looked very happy about it.

“Fantastic,” said Basira.

“ _Where are Tim and Martin?_ ” he asked, the robotic voice slurring Tim’s name oddly. “ _Where are Tim and Martin?_ _Where are-_ ” the phone repeated, and Nathan jabbed at the screen to make it stop. He flushed. 

“They just left,” Melanie said. “Freaking, it’s almost nineteen hundred! Ugh, I’ve been here since eight.” Melanie wrinkled her nose. “Nathan,” she tried, sounding out the name. “Do you remember where your flat is?”

He shook his head, typing out a, “ _ Nope, _ ” with his phone for good measure. “ _ I was staying with a roommate, _ ” he said. The text to voice program distinctly pronounced room and mate as separate words. Basira somewhat doubted that his new flat contained a roommate. “ _ Tim. Or Georgie, _ ” he added. 

Basira grimaced. “I don’t have any room,” she began.

“Nope,” said Daisy. 

Melanie sighed. “Well, Georgie does keep asking for more details. I’ll talk to her. Maybe J- Ahem, maybe he left some things at her flat. Come on Nathan, let’s see if she’ll let you sleep on her couch,” Melanie said. “Not sure how I’m going to explain this one,” she mumbled. 

“ _ I want to see the Admiral, _ ” Nathan’s phone said plainly, not picking up at all on the excited look on his face. Basira still was not used to ‘Jon’ expressing this much emotion openly. “ _ Georgie has my stuff, _ ” the device said, Nathan having a moment of clarity. 

Basira hoped that Jon’s friend was equipped to deal with Nathan, and trusted that Melanie could figure out some way to explain to the woman what happened, hopefully without causing Nathan to have a panic attack when she did not recognize him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nathan's text to voice app uses the Daniel (UK) voice. I am not sorry if you recognize it.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, and for reading this story so far! For a bit of an irl update: I am starting school up again next week, so my update schedule might get a little wonky for both this and my [So Sings a Song of Slaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775218) series (which is just now nearing canon times, crazy stuff!). Don't be concerned if the days I update move around a bit as I adjust to my classes. Writing got me through a very difficult summer, and continues to help me keep from letting the weeks blur together too much. I still can't quite believe that this went from an angsty idea in a discord server to a 20k+ word fleshed out story. Thank you all again for sticking with me!
> 
> Edit: Found out my roommate has covid. Next update might take a bit while things get settled.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgie meets Nathan.

Melanie somehow got Nathan through the tube and to Georgie’s place without issue. All throughout the ride, she was hyper aware of any odd looks from other passengers. She figured that staying together was the best defence against kidnapping, but it did not hurt to be vigilant. Her hand itched for her bag when she caught a man with an almost too-perfect face staring at her, but he looked away when Nathan brushed up against her as another passenger shoved through the evening crowd. 

Nathan led the way out of the station, his quick gait hauntingly familiar to Jon’s. Their paces were about the same length, but Melanie still found herself running slightly out of breath trying to keep up. Still, there were irregularities. Jon was never so smooth at moving around obstacles. Nathan practically danced around two people carrying a widescreen television out of a store, and did a little leap over puddles instead of carefully stepping around. In those moments, his movements reminded her more of a ballet dancer than the academic she knew. 

Finally, they made it to Georgie’s place. Melanie shot a quick text to Georgie, who buzzed them up. Nathan’s confident pace faltered as they stopped outside her door, and he fumbled with his phone. He stepped to the side while Melanie knocked, shuffling from foot to foot. It hit her, as Georgie opened the door, that he was nervous. 

“Melanie?” Georgie greeted, looking between her and Nathan. “Who is your friend?”

Melanie couldn’t help but inhale seeing Georgie. Her hair was braided into neat cornrows, tresses draped over a shoulder. Her lips were pursed, eyes sharp. “Uh, right, this is Nathan,” Melanie said. “He’s a-uhm, a friend. Here, let’s talk inside,” she said and pressed in. 

“Right, a friend. Hi Nathan, I’m Georgie,” her friend said, holding out a hand to Nathan. 

He shrunk back and gave her a small wave, smiling nervously. His eyes flicked back and forth between Georgie’s face and Melanie, who gestured her hands toward Georgie encouragingly. 

“Not one for, uh, personal contact, then,” Georgie said, breaking the awkward tension. “That’s fine, come on in. Any friend of Melanie’s is a friend of mine.” She stayed silent as Nathan entered and immediately approached the Admiral, offering his hand to the cat to sniff delicately. She seemed at a loss, and sidled up to Melanie.

“Ah, right,” Melanie said quickly. “Nathan, uh, he can’t speak. He’s, he’s mute?”

“Oh!” Georgie said. “Right, okay. That’s alright.”

“I, uh, think I should explain some things, do you mind if we talk privately?” Melanie asked quietly as Nathan stroked the Admiral, who was purring like a motorcycle. 

“Sure,” Georgie said slowly. She spoke up, “Nathan, Melanie and I are going to be in the other room.” She glanced at Melanie. “Make yourself at home,” she said. 

Melanie tugged her into Georgie’s recording studio, closing the door firmly behind them to cut out any sound. She sighed, trying to gather her thoughts. Why did this job have to be so stupidly supernatural, she thought angrily. 

“Melanie?” Georgie asked. “Tell me what’s going on. Are you and Nathan, uh, dating?”

“What?” Melanie said, shocked out of her thoughts. “Ew, no. No! Let me explain. Uh, how much did Jon tell you about our workplace?”

Georgie’s face went tense. “Not much,” she said. “Enough for me to get the idea that it’s a pretty toxic place to work. Proper supernatural. Don’t tell me you’re caught up in that, too.”

“Toxic isn’t the half of it,” Melanie mumbled. “And I’m pretty sure I was ‘caught up’ in it since I signed on. Elias basically said our lives are tied to the Institute now. Tim tried to quit, went all the way to Malaysia to visit some family, and ended up getting supernatural withdrawal, or something.”

“What? Jon said, he said he couldn’t quit,” Georgie put a hand to her mouth. “But I didn’t realize it was that bad. I thought he was too stubborn and obsessed to leave.”

Melanie shrugged. Jon had been more wrapped up in everything than she ever was. “Something about the place physically prevents you from quitting, I’ve tried multiple times since Elias told us he killed the previous archivist and Jurgen Leitner. I can’t even type out a resignation letter.”

“Right,” Georgie said and exhaled. “What does Nathan have to do with all of this then?”

Melanie winced. “So, did Jon tell you about the Stranger?”

“It’s some supernatural power, related to a circus, or delivery drivers. Something about mannequins, taxidermy, and Nikola Orsinov.”

“Yeah, so, about a month and a half ago, they sort of kidnapped Jon.”

“What.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay, and that this is the shortest chapter to date. If updates are ever late, check my tumblr. I try to make a post explaining why.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism welcome!
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://willowwispflame.tumblr.com/) if you'd like.


End file.
